


The Easy Winners

by c0rnfl0wer



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anxiety Attacks, Ballet Dancer!Viktor, Composer!Yuuri, Happy Ending, M/M, Pianist!Yuuri, Possible smut, Slow Burn, a ragtime era au that no one asked for, it still has figure skating though!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10061807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c0rnfl0wer/pseuds/c0rnfl0wer
Summary: Only the best are remembered as revolutionaries, the forefathers of their craft. As the first Olympics to include figure skating nears and ragtime music breaks tradition, Viktor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuuri earn this title internationally. But with culture reeling against new age trends and more adept skaters aiming for gold, it takes some interdisciplinary collaboration for both artists to stay ahead.Historical AU set around 1908, the ragtime era. Yuuri is a pianist & composer in ragtime, Viktor is a ballet dancer turned figure skater.  Updates every Monday!





	1. Tsarevich & Prince

The lessons had started with Mari, rapidly disinterested in them, before passing onto Yuuri. He was easily her best student. Many students had studied under Minako as Japan’s Westernization was encouraged further, but no one else could embody music as soulfully as he could.

This was an age of firsts. For Japan, for the world. The momentum toward globalization, various cultural aspects catching on to the West and back, and the West itself beginning to restrain tradition; this was the time for revolutionaries to stand at the forefront of the stage.

Minako had insisted on starting the cultural Westernization in Hasetsu, Japan decades ago. The country had only been forced open to the rest of the world a few years previously, but in her youth Minako wasted no time - not that she does now either, by any means. She learned English and scraps of Russian and chatted with foreigners at the largest port city in the vicinity until she had gleamed everything she could from them of Western dance, particularly ballet. Why copy the long line of traditional Noh Mai and other steps when she could impress her little hometown with something entirely new? Pull the culture one step closer to what it seemed to be trying to achieve? She talked her way into connections, her cheery silver tongue a useful complement to her growing dance skills, until she found herself in a ballet academy abroad. Then in a world-class ballet company, there being no place for her back home at that point as she had earned an international reputation. Passing years saw her win the most prestigious of awards and stand beside the world’s most iconic dancers in recital, Japan’s first prima ballerina. And when age forced her career to an end she founded a ballet studio in Hasetsu and became a highly sought-after teacher. She was Hasetsu’s pride and joy from the moment she had received her first pair of pointe shoes.

The ballet studio had already been open for a few years when Mari enrolled in her class, any nerves of teaching she had had already dissipating. A driven teacher, the students that fully pledged themselves under her guidance tended to have successful futures.

Yuuri caught her attention from the start - more than just from his mother being Hiroko, Minako’s childhood friend. Perhaps his form was not the best compared to other children, his technique needing more work if his perseverance was truly going to last. But where he lacked in technical skill he was far superior in his presentation, in his complicated footwork and how he was able to grasp at and reflect the music naturally.

His persistence did not waver, all of his focus going into perfecting his techniques and heeding Minako’s encouragements. By the age of ten he was the studio’s best pupil, the most dedicated. His social life never really developed beyond practicing with Yuuko, and his parents could never grasp the beauty he saw in ballet, leaving his motivation as his own and Minako’s responsibility when the effort seemed to be too much.

Minako’s name never faded from the ballet world, always remembered by coaches and retirees with awe. It helped that she kept up strong ties with those she had known throughout her career, letters always coming in about new ballets and rising dancers. A great many repeated the name Viktor Nikiforov, the Russian spitfire who hit fame as a child and kept breaking expectations with cool confidence, the new prodigy who no one could boast enough about. Anyone with any access to the dancing world knew his name by heart, and Minako was still heavily connected with it. She had passed on news of what ballets Nikiforov was performing now and then to her students, hoping his success would be some further motivation, and it no doubt worked in Yuuri and Yuukos’ cases.

So, when word of a performance starring Viktor Nikiforov scheduled in Tokyo reached her, Minako jumped at the chance of taking Yuuri and Yuuko. It would be impossible to deny entrance to Japan’s prima ballerina and best teacher.  
The journey there was filled with Minako’s recounting her career days, her describing how thrilling it is to see ballets with big name stars, and restless questions of the play to be performed from Yuuri. It was a fairly new performance, the choreography not even being taught in Minako’s studio yet, and it left them waiting impatiently.

Despite the brief sightseeing venture Minako led them on, Yuuri didn’t retain anything from those days but the actual performance. None of the streets caught his attention and he would find it difficult to recall more than the name of the hall where it was performed, his memory hung up completely on Viktor Nikiforov’s dancing from the moment he saw it live.

It was long, just long enough for Yuuri _not_ to be sitting on the edge of his seat the entire time. _The Sleeping Beauty_ had only premiered a few years previously, quickly rising in popularity with Nikiforov in the lead as none other than Désiré, and the excitement for it from the audience was discernible. Yuuri sat up straight during the performance, eyes only for Nikiforov as he stole the audience’s adoration. His silver hair was still long and tied back for this specific show, his suit a smattering of light blue and white trimmed in frills and decoration, and his dancing was breathtaking. Light footfalls and subtle strength convinced every audience member that no one could ever move as gracefully as he did, holding them in astonishment until the last note of the ballet.

There was no one present as enthusiastic as Yuuri when Nikiforov took his final bow, his smile so wide and his eyes so bright in amazement. There could be no fan as committed as Yuuri, the music still pounding in his ears and his body aching to try the dance for himself. To dance it with Viktor Nikiforov someday.

And it was over. The audience began filing out of the hall, exhausted and dazed after that narrative. Some linger, part of the ballet company knowing to stay for a few moments for the more dedicated fan. Minako was the one who suggested going to talk to the dancers, eager to see if any of the youth would recognize her name, and Yuuko did not protest in the slightest. While Minako slipped off to chat with various ballerinas, Yuuko beelined for Nikiforov with Yuuri trailing her.

And he was right there. He still stood on the stage in full costume, though a poodle was now added to his persona. As they got closer Yuuri could see him pet his dog and heard the name “Makkachin”. In broken English Yuuko called for Nikiforov’s attention, introduced herself, complimented his performance. She always was kind enough to do the talking for the both of them.

And Yuuri had trouble speaking. He kept his distance from the stage, fervently stealing glances at Nikiforov, who only smiled at him briefly before concluding his conversation with Yuuko and turning to the next admirer. He could not even manage a “hello”, a more obvious grin indicating his pleasure in seeing the ballet, any real acknowledgment of Nikiforov’s existence. Rumors could never compare to witnessing Nikiforov in person, a realization that had been preying on Yuuri since the ballet began. A realization that quieted him with growing fear of the dancer.

_How could he just stand there, nervous, when moments before his awe had been so apparent? How could his throat close on him, his hands shaking, his lips twisted in a hesitant smile as if that were enough to explain his love for the ballet?_

But he had, frozen in place and silent when given the one chance to greet his new idol. He had stayed put even when Nikiforov gave one final wave to the small crowd and led Makkachin backstage. It was not until a while later that he gathered the energy to find speech again, to calm himself after Nikiforov’s ballet and smile. Disappointment flooded him after that, unable to forgive his lack of confidence. This, in turn, was immediately drowned out by his sheer joy from seeing the ballet, his renewed dedication to the art, his vow to perform on stage with Viktor Nikiforov someday, to share in his passion and grace, in one way or another.

Yuuri threw himself into ballet completely and utterly after that, more than before, solidifying it as his future. Local competition had no chance against him when the dances he performed, the music he danced to, struck a chord with him. It did not always work out, he would fail in trying to surprise the audience in his roles as Nikiforov did, but could garnish attention in the ones he was made for. The gentle pieces, the choreography that exuded agape, was where he established his reputation, never daring for anything more powerful. Promises made at _The Sleeping Beauty_ aside, his low confidence never let him progress past the name he was already resigning himself to. For all his passion, all his love for the grace of ballet, he could never divert the right amount of boisterous energy into his dances, or find a composition that matched how his love manifested itself.  
  
His role stuck quickly throughout the ballets, always being assigned to the modest suitor while students with greater technical skills and charming personalities trumped the roles of kings and princes. Not that he could cope with the leading roles when his low confidence would drag at his heels, when he would fall where he was supposed to leap and land smoothly, or his anxiety would distract him before the music even began.  
  
An unabashed idea taken from Nikiforov and Makkachin, Yuuri had gotten a poodle of his own named Vicchan. The connection itself was never something to regret, but it was difficult to ignore when he came to Vicchan for comfort after a disappointing recital. The inspiration still gripped him even when nothing else seemed to be going right.  
  
At twelve years-old he cut back his ballet lessons to pursue something new. Yuuri had read the letters Minako received regarding Viktor Nikiforov since seeing _The Sleeping Beauty_ and knew too well that his name had already been heard internationally by Yuuri’s age. Time can be a pressing matter, the base against which to judge oneself. It was too telling to Yuuri that his name had not reached beyond Hasetsu’s limits. If Nikiforov was already turning heads for his various roles at twelve, how could Yuuri overcome everything and fix each fault of his in no time? How could he possibly catch up?  
  
_It’s impossible._  
  
Not long after his birthday Yuuri divvied up his time between ballet lessons and learning to play the piano. If he could not bring himself to succeed in dance, then surely music was the next step in ballet? His technical skills had always seemed unpolished for all the work he had devoted, his roles lackluster because _he_ was lackluster as far as the audience was concerned. If there was no song that could let him show that he was more than a dime-a-dozen dancer, then he would have to write it himself.  
  
_And wouldn’t this be useful and artistic? To write the songs that failures like him could relate to? This clinging desire of his had to be directed somewhere. And wouldn’t it be useful and artistic, though far-fetched, if someday he wrote the music that Viktor Nikiforov danced so perfectly to? Who better than Yuuri, who could feel every emotion in compositions so thoroughly, who felt every note resonate in his bones?_

He kept up his ballet lessons, not being able to eradicate his love for dance simply with a new skill, but as of December 1898, Katsuki Yuuri was officially preparing to become a world-class composer.

* * *

_St. Petersburg, 1896_

It was one of the best perks of being a _Russian_ ballet dancer: he could stay in his hometown for a majority of the time. His coach lived there, finding a ballet studio had never been too difficult, and the number of ballet recitals being held in St. Petersburg throughout the years was immeasurable. And if not St. Petersburg, then surely Moscow would have a stage ready for him. Russia had facilitated his fame easily, a leading country in the art, so he had gained international recognition before ever stepping beyond its borders. Performances abroad were rare and few in between, noticeable occasions, yet his name superseded him by years. Who wouldn’t be able to recognize the Russian champion of dance?

For all of his effort, he made his dancing look effortless, as if it were pure talent alone. The work remained, though if anything was effortless it was his growing used to the fame and wealth. Living with Yakov due to his age and so that he could benefit the most from his instructions was not the best experience, but the flat they had in St. Petersburg’s center was the height of luxury. Days spent without any true friends was lonely, but at least he had the adoring smiles of audiences and Makkachin following at his heels. Combined with his love for ballet, for dancing and always challenging himself with better and heftier roles, at 14 this was the best life he could have possibly imagined.

Deeply intertwined with St. Petersburg and the sports world, news of the upcoming figure skating competition to take place there reached him easily. It had caught the attention of the various ballet teachers and dancers Viktor knew, had been mentioned in the newspapers. It even had a Russian participant in its premier - not that he found this particularly surprising. Weeks before it was set to take place, Viktor already had the vague plan to attend, if out of curiosity alone. Figure skating was new, still a sport to be shaped, something that he gravitated towards.

It meant slipping away from Yakov, but Viktor watched the first figure skating world championships. The show itself was underwhelming to someone so immersed in the busy life of ballet, having only four competitors that year. Yet there was potential. The sport had barely begun and how could Viktor say no to a challenge? To really shocking the world with this?

At 14, nearly 15, he was just old enough to compete in the competitions, though not nearly ready yet. That would change soon enough. Highly independent and always progressing quicker than Yakov wanted, Viktor had hired someone to instruct him in ice skating, then figure skating, before his coach was even aware that he had seen the Championship. Whether or not the decision was spontaneous or something meant to be more was difficult for even Viktor to say. It was only after months of training on the ice that he found his dream to skate in the next competition cemented.

He had a quickly found talent on the ice, carrying over years of ballet lessons to the new platform. The strength and grace needed in his recitals was applied well to the figures and still-developing jumps that his teachers instructed him in. By the time the competition approached, he was adept in every skill he needed to win.

A year after the first championship, Viktor dragged Yakov down to the rink and showed him everything he had learned so far. When he had finished, he asked Yakov simply, “Think you can work with that?”

Yakov’s response was a sigh and, “Very well. But we will have to clean up your routine if you expect me to coach you here, too.”

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nyx99YcHdIQ) was added to his performance, a classical piece that Yakov had agreed on. It was not a recent piece, it could not be when Viktor was planning to make history, to pull the aesthetic and emotional world of ballet into figure skating. He repurposed the blue and white suit he had worn during _The Sleeping Beauty_ for his routine, a perfect fit for the music and forceful reminder of who he was. And Yakov had the routine choreographed beyond figures and jumps; it was a story in its own right. Everything was harmonized, as perfect as Viktor Niforov seemed to be.

Two years later, during the championship of 1898, Viktor entered the competition for the first time and won gold. He was 16.

With him he brought the techniques and beauty of ballet, which a majority of his work was still in, and his own charm. He revolutionized figure skating, to the amazement of the world that had not known his plans until his debut.

* * *

_Detroit, 1904_

Yuuri is surprising in his own right, a product of his own internal spark and the steady support of others. He had clawed his way to being Hasetsu’s best ballet dancer, even if his anxiety did keep the audience from realizing it, and he had clawed his way to being Hasetsu’s rising pianist and composer. Who could deny his talent, despite all his physical and mental weaknesses?

Performing and composing music was different in a way that Yuuri could appreciate. His mistakes and faults were his own. If he wrote a disappointing melody or fumbled when playing it only reflected on him. It was different than ballet, where a single failed jump could ruin the scene, destroy the atmosphere of the entire recital and his peers’ work with it. No one depended on him in music, and with the lack of pressure to wrack his nerves he found himself unfettered. Every composition was completely his, its own being without the dependence of others resting on it.

His appreciation for music was enough for him to learn it thoroughly. Thanks to his parents’ business success paying for him to have a good teacher and his own perseverance, Yuuri mastered the piano and had completed a few compositions by the time he was 18.

Over the years he did have a few recitals, small and personal affairs held at Yu-topia Katsuki. When he had progressed enough he switched from performing as a dancer in ballets to performing the piano for them. He continued his ballet privately, but this arrangement was more accommodating to him. He set the mood for the ballets, performed an important part in them, while staying out of the audience’s _scathing_ view. It allowed him to express his love in solitary, staved off his nerves.

Having been a concert pianist in previous years, Yuuri’s teacher recognized the potential in him. He was not wrong in believing Yuuri could build a similar future; the talent, motivation, and confidence were present, even if the teacher did not know where his original motivation stemmed from. Why bother asking if it had served Yuuri well enough all these years? When Yuuri was 16 he recommended his considering a career as a concert pianist, which was quickly agreed to.

For the next few years, Yuuri’s training as a pianist was more intense than ever. Though he had been dabbling in composition, trying to find the right story and melody for a ballet, he had never finished them. It was with greater encouragement from his teacher that he finished them, each able to stand alone yet all forming a cohesive whole. His teacher even taught him English in preparation of the inevitable.

After Yuuri’s first compositions were complete and polished, the teacher reluctantly admitted that Hasetsu was too small for Yuuri to get the recognition and training he deserved. At 18, he had an undeniable potential for even the harshest of critics, and it was time to face them, to show them what he had to offer. His name could be internationally known, if only people heard him. Besides, the teacher could only offer him insight as a pianist while the original compositions indicated the desire for a more well-rounded composer. Surely the works could be improved with orchestra, with brass, with vocals, if only Yuuri could gain the knowledge and resources he needed.

Pulling on his remaining connections in the music world, the teacher got in contact with the best he could find, Celestino Cialdini. Cialdini was a highly successful composer and concert pianist, though recently he had added teaching music at a university in Detroit to his repertoire. His ability to play instruments was expansive and everyone that learned under him only had promising futures ahead. If anyone could teach Yuuri and get him a reputation, it would be Cialdini.

Giving Yuuri the advantage of playing where he felt most comfortable, Cialdini was invited to Hasetsu. Cialdini listened to all of his compositions, looked over the sheet music, and only then gave his answer to the teacher’s request.

“Mr. Katsuki, I want you to consider studying music with me in Detroit.”

It was a lot to process. Despite his innate passion for music, his dream to someday compose a piece just for Viktor Nikiforov, the thought of leaving Hasetsu was overwhelming. He rarely left its borders. Everything he had ever known was here. His family. Vicchan. His teacher. Minako. And he had never been to America, let alone Detroit. Nor did he know Cialdini well.

It was a lot.

“I will go with you.”

Maybe it helped that he was a bit older now, capable of independence when pressed, and that his dreams had been a constant for so many years now. His hope to someday write and perform a ballet starring Viktor Nikiforov never diminished, instead driving him to start new compositions and continuously improve his skills at the keyboard. Someday he would inspire such a breathtaking performance from Nikiforov as he had seen at _The Sleeping Beauty_.

Minako still provided him with news of Nikiforov’s performances, courtesy of the letters that never slackened in pace. He heard of every premier of every new ballet, how magnetic Nikiforov had been on the first night and all subsequent nights, never faltering. He had heard - then reread multiple times - the letters describing Nikiforov’s debut in figure skating. The transition had been shocking then and it was still shocking as Nikiforov kept taking gold in the world championship in every year since. Even if it was for that one competition out of the entire year, the world remained astonished at the Russian dancer maintaining both careers.

“What tenacity he must have to keep up ballet and skating! Have you ever heard of anyone so passionate about what they love? This boy will go down in history, I guarantee it. The Russian spitfire!”

The letters always went on in that fashion, Yuuri agreeing wholeheartedly with every word. He wished he could keep that fact internalized, drowned out, but how could he when Nikiforov won gold in another championship then dazzled audiences in a ballet not long after? When the details of how Nikiforov danced and glossed-over reviews of the music could never satiate him? Minako knew, of course, always watching as he memorized the letters. And he could not hide it from Yuuko at all after they saw _The Sleeping Beauty_ , not when he threw himself into ballet so utterly after that and got Vicchan. Mari was too receptive of him to not know it, noticing when he would wonder whether his compositions were Nikiforov-worthy.

How could he hide his muse from anyone trusted and willing to listen?

And Cialdini - if he was going to teach Yuuri every skill needed to be a concert pianist, a composer, a king of ballets, how could he refute the offer? It tore him to leave Hasetsu, unsure of when he would be able to afford the journey back to visit, but his teacher was right. Hasetsu was holding him back when it was time to move on.

Yuuri carefully decorated his small apartment in Detroit to make him feel more at home. Cialdini had mentioned the possibility of his getting a roommate sooner or later, but for now he was alone. The apartment building was situated close to the university. Yuuri would enroll in classes next autumn, but for now Cialdini was focusing on Yuuri during his hours outside of the classroom. His compositions were almost perfect in Cialdini’s eyes - almost. He had been instructed to focus his time on putting more depth into the works, more emotion behind every stray note.

The remainder of his time was spent either working on new compositions or frequenting a local club. He had never been outgoing, but it was the best way to see what genre of music Americans were into at the moment. It was a nice place, though more interested in the modern trends than what Yuuri was accustomed to. Classical music rarely graced the establishment’s piano, the room instead being filled with fluttering scales and deep brass that instilled excitement in him. The songs had a new kind of atmosphere, throwing off the shackles of tradition. They were jovial, young. Shocking to Yuuri’s senses, but pleasing.

After Yuuri had begun noticing the patterns, picked up on how the composers made the songs so thrilling, he composed similar pieces. They were all ragtime and they were all his own. Every score was imprinted with the cohesive grace learned from ballet, every note broken from the next with the high-spirited style of rag. Heavy melodies sustained the beat while harrying notes higher up the keyboard tugged at it, ran ahead with excitement.

They had depth, reflected his worries and unfulfilled dreams with no one knowing but everyone picking up on it. There was enough joy in his having such lovely dreams, having such a worthy muse, in the first place to straighten everything out. At the very least, Detroit’s youth could dance to them.

Sometime after he had begun devoting time to this new music, he performed a few of his songs for the owner of the club. He had been there enough to be on friendly terms with the staff and the owner, and when the owner had learned of Yuuri’s future profession, he had been more than willing to listen. The songs must have met the owner’s expectations and more: Yuuri was given his own slot on Sunday nights before quickly moving onto playing Friday and Saturday nights upon proving that he could keep performing well. He was easily a crowd favorite, already familiar as a club regular and now as the author of a few beloved songs.

Cialdini was never to know.

Yuuri also performed as the pianist at various theaters and ballets, small parts repeating songs that he had memorized the movements to from practice years before. It gained him no recognition, but it paid his way in Detroit and reminded him of home. Those performances were not the exhilarating debuts of his groundbreaking new works, but they brought some tranquility to him. Allowed him to share his love for music with an audience not watching him.

These nights were not quite as memorable, but they did provide Yuuri with one extra benefit: news of Viktor Nikiforov. Minako still passed word of him to Yuuri in her letters, but listening in at ballet recitals brought him news so much quicker. And as he had yet to find a new ballet studio to train in - he was unsure about finding another instructor as kind and high-spirited as Minako - it was at these performances that he received such news.

Which is how Yuuri found out, a few months after his moving to Detroit, that Viktor Nikiforov would be performing a ballet there soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's ragtime works are akin to Solace by Scott Joplin (a Mexican serenade). Viktor's first championship is skated to Ruslan and Lyudmila by Mikhail Glinka, his costume is supposed to be close to the blue one he wore in the show.
> 
> Just so you all know, this and the next chapter were supposed to be one chapter but all this background info… got out of hand, aha. That’s why the dialogue is nill here, but it will be livelier and the chapters longer after this, I swear.
> 
> Anyway, this work will hopefully be mostly historically accurate but with way more fluff than pain. Hopefully. I’ll probably be updating about once a week. In the meantime please feel free to leave kudos and comments/questions! I thrive off of positive attention. And I can be found at [c0rnfl0wer](http://c0rnfl0wer.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!


	2. Excited and Abashed (What Could Have Been)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical note before we go any further: ragtime was considered pretty low-class by a lot of people back in the day. It literally started in brothels and the like and got slandered for being immoral. There's some "delightful" reviews of ragtime from back then [here](https://www.amoeba.com/blog/2009/08/eric-s-blog/the-roots-of-jazz-ragtime.html) if anyone wants to see. Likewise, dances like the [bunny hug](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cePFrlL33S0) and later the more popular [foxtrot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrLqM8mZhis&t=69s) were really risque for their day, like the early 1900s version of dirty dancing. It got so bad it was outlawed in America for a while! Please keep this in mind throughout this fic!
> 
> Music used: Sunflower performed by Yundi Li
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read so far & please feel free to leave kudos/comments if you like it!

As the scheduled ballet neared, details of it and Viktor Nikiforov’s impending arrival blossomed across the major news outlets. Yuuri read and saved every issue, marked the date, worked extra hours to ensure his gaining entrance the very first night. They were standardized by now, most of the background information known to Yuuri for years.

“Viktor Nikiforov, living legend in ballet and rising star of the figure skating world, is set to perform _Coppélia_ in Detroit.

“The 23 year-old Russian dancer built his reputation performing in the local recitals of St. Petersburg, his hometown. Yakov Feltsman noticed Nikiforov when he started consistently earning leading roles and offered to represent him. With Feltsman’s name and connections, Nikiforov began being cast in larger and more advertised performances. Coupled with his obvious talent and intense training over previous years, he has since captured fame and recognition on an international scale in the dance world and beyond. With no decline in sight, Nikiforov has unquestionably domineered premier nights as a necessity to every promising show’s success…

“In 1898, the living legend of ballet shocked the world by taking home gold in the figure skating championships with a groundbreaking performance and routine. The ballet dancer had previously failed to announce his shift to the skating world, instead preparing for it out of the public’s eye until his debut. With Yakov still representing him in both careers, Nikiforov has taken gold in every consecutive competition since. He has become known for his colorful performances choreographed with a story to tell and flawless technical skill, no doubt a trademark learned during his years of ballet…

“This year also marked his debut in the European Figure Skating Championships, which took place in Davos, Switzerland back in January. Nikiforov took silver in Switzerland before taking his usual gold in the World Championships a few months later. Many of his more avid supporters in the developing figure skating world expect his comeback in next year’s European Figure Skating Championships…

“Viktor Nikiforov currently resides in St. Petersburg, his hometown. He has no plans to attend university or to marry as of yet, stating that he is focusing on his two athletic careers. Little is known of his personal life besides his owning a poodle and being quite the charmer.”

Yuuri scanned the reports quickly, skipping the information that he had memorized. The upcoming dates were what grabbed his attention, ticket prices and location the only bits that he focused on.

The newspapers remained stacked neatly on his kitchen table regardless.

He was getting along well enough on his own. Most of his time was spent alone at the keyboard, but his apartment was tidy. Most of his comfort was derived from letters from home, but his pantry was stocked with food. Most of Detroit still terrified him and kept him from venturing far, but every night he cooked a simple dinner for himself. Most of him longed for Hasetsu and his family, but he was on the right path to becoming a concert pianist and composer now.

He also was simultaneously relieved and unnerved at the thought of having a roommate.

It all depended. On the roommate, mostly.

Yuuri was not concerned about sharing his living space with another person, having gotten used to a lack of privacy while at Yu-topia Katsuki. Banquet halls and guest rooms just down the hall from his bedroom had numbed him to invariable crowds, little silence, and the constant traces of other people in general areas. Cleaning he could deal with, as long as the roommate was not a total slob. What Yuuri _was_ concerned about was the type of person his roommate would be. In Hasetsu there was the understanding of personal space and relatively few comments being thrown his way, at least when he was perched on the piano bench.

But the extroverted sort? The people who sought his constant company and ushered him into the unknown? He had to interrupt his fears every time his mind turned back to the roommate situation, or else risk the loop of questions on what personality his potential roommate would possess. When the very thought of carrying on an introductory conversation with a stranger tugged at his nerves, how could the suspense of waiting be considered possible to cope with? He almost cursed Cialdini for warning him of this.

Yuuri posed the question from time to time in a small voice, subtly begging for any news whatsoever. To this Cialdini always replied, “I am still in the works of tracking down one talent. Don’t fret over it.”

The answer did not change until the evening that Cialdini had broached the subject himself. He had visited Yuuri for this purpose alone, aware that he was still anxious over it and would likely be appreciative of any updates. This not being one of the days Cialdini usually scheduled time for him on, Yuuri was shocked by the visit and even more so when he left.

“Listen Yuuri, I might have finally gotten in contact with the talent I had mentioned to you. If all goes well, he’ll be your roommate.”

“Wait, who-”

“I’m in a bit of a hurry. But having a roommate will be good for you, might introduce you to new instruments and music genres. Maybe you’ll even make a new friend! How about that? He’s a boy from Thailand, a bit younger than you but rumor has it that he’s a natural on the violin. Anyway, I finally got his contact information and an answer back. He’s coming to Detroit so that I can hear him play. You can come with me if you want, give you an idea of your new roommate and maybe it’ll help him a bit. I hear he’s keen on attention. Sound good?”

“Yes, but do you know-”

“Great! I’ll come get you tomorrow at noon. See you then, Yuuri.”

With a bright grin Cialdini took leave of Yuuri then. Yuuri stayed seated on his sofa for some time after he had left, trying to catch up with every word of this news and predict the future that would result from it.

The phrase “keen on attention” and every single implication that could stem from it echoed through his mind, up until the moment he fell asleep.

His worst fears were left unconfirmed.

He had a reassuring smile. That was the first thing Yuuri noticed when he first saw the Thai violinist, with his black hair slicked back and wearing a pressed, if old-fashioned, suit. He had been applying resin to his bow when Cialdini and Yuuri met him in the empty lecture hall at the university, the violinist having wanted to see the establishment. His violin was nestled in its case and sheet music was draped along a music stand.

Yuuri could not decide whether or not it was a good thing that he had made himself at home so quickly. _Endearing or presumptuous?_

Introductions were made briefly, Cialdini mentioning only Yuuri’s name and that he was a pianist and composer. In turn, Yuuri learned the name Phichit Chulanont.

He also learned that Phichit’s music was lively, his bow flittering over the strings and fingers plucking at just the right moments. It was elaborate, each note a necessity, and when the strings had finished reverberating the room felt impossibly empty. It matched Phichit’s personality, the violinist smiling during the most animated pieces and his added bow at the end of each performance rather charismatic.

The chosen music was extravagantly showy, drenched in classical elements while making them new, so obviously Phichit.

“I think we’ve found the perfect fit for our violin section. What do you think, Yuuri?” Cialdini declared after Phichit’s final bow.

“Oh, well, ye- yes. He’s good. Quick.” It was all he could manage to say before Cialdini resumed speaking, though he did receive an appreciative smile from Phichit.

“Perfect! It’s a big choice, moving here, but you should think about it if you-”

“I want to move here and study with you! I’ve worked hard to get this far and I can’t give it up now.” His violin and bow were still clutched in his hands, skin indented from the thin strings. “When can I move in?”

The line earned a hearty laugh from Cialdini, clapping him on the shoulder. “Right away, assuming Yuuri hasn’t made too much of a mess. You’ll be sharing an apartment with him for now. I’m sure you two will get along great!”

Yuuri had definitively _not_ made a mess, the second room of the apartment still bare in resignation to the assumed inevitability of a roommate. Everything was set for Phichit’s immediate occupancy, a fact that Cialdini was aware of. And so Phichit did, violin case and luggage in hand.

He had admittedly been prepared for this exact scenario, reluctant to accept the possibility of being rejected in the end.

Phichit was unabashed in his questions, quickly learning the names of Yuuri’s family in the one photograph of them he possessed and how he had become a pianist. He asked of Yuuri’s hobbies, only getting a vague explanation of how he spent most of his time working odd performance jobs, and what sites he had seen in Detroit so far. All the while he filled Yuuri in on his own life, how his parents had encouraged his interest in music, his hours spent playing on the busy street corners of Bangkok in exchange for money and rumor of his talent, his deep pride in his heritage and culture, his dream to express all of it in his future compositions.

_Endearing_ , Yuuri decided. Because Phichit really was friendly, willing to listen to Yuuri and in possession of the enthusiasm that they both could benefit from. He was an easy friend, grasping at their similarities and spinning a friendship between them over a thousand small moments that could not break simply on a whim. If he made himself at home in the lecture hall and their apartment presumptuously, it was because they _were_ his home and anyone could plainly see it, could never deny it.

“What’s the story behind all these articles on this ballet guy? The newspapers here on the table?”

Yuuri flinched.

_Right. The newspapers he had forgotten to move, not having fully expected Phichit to come with him back to the apartment that day._

“Nothing!” A break, deep breath. So much for being subtle. “I mean, I used to do ballet and he’s the best so… I like keeping up with it. I’m hoping to compose a ballet someday, that’s it.”

Except a blush had asserted itself along his cheeks and his voice stumbled too much. Not being able to ignore the accompanying heat and constriction in his throat, Yuuri hid behind his hands and hoped that Phichit was too preoccupied with the articles to notice. The articles he could explain away, but the blush was a different matter; he wasn’t certain if there _was_ much of a reason behind his multiple articles on Nikiforov and _only_ Nikiforov.

Putting that into words could wait until he knew Phichit better, at least.

“I take it you’re gonna go see him then?” At Yuuri’s questioning look he held up one of the newspapers, the date for the upcoming ballet heavily underlined. “There’s a few more like this if you need more reminders.”

Yuuri quickly shook his head, raising his hands in defeat. “Yeah. I am. Why?”

“Can I come with you? It’ll be interesting; I’ve never seen a ballet before. And it’s good to hear a variety of genres, right? I think Cialdini would be pleased if we both went.”

“Alright, alright. You can come.” His hands were still up, though his words were marked with amusement. “It’s better with a friend anyway.”

“Yes! And you can come with me to pick out a couple of hamsters. I’ve always wanted some, did I tell you that? This is gonna be great, Yuuri, we’re gonna rule Detroit together! Now do I get to hear you play? It’s only fair.” Phichit gave him a proud grin before ushering them both over to Yuuri’s piano.

Yuuri’s fears of having a roommate were dissipated on the first day. His privacy had been maintained but Phichit did even more. Yuuri had never realized how grey his world had become until Phichit pushed him out the door, off his usual trail to the small theaters and clubs. They did more than just sightsee: every new silent film to come out filled their evenings, the good and bad alike, on Phichit’s suggestion; Yuuri got them seats at local plays and one ballet to introduce Phichit to the art he knew so much about; accompaniments were found for songs they both liked so that their practice could coincide; and of course, on Phichit’s second day there, they went to pick out two new hamsters.

They had been named _Khun Chang_ and _Khun Paen_ after two characters in traditional Thai theater.

It’s difficult to predict how intertwined two lives might become. Minako and his previous music instructor had taken years in building their trust. Only Nikiforov had come close so far to this sudden intensity that Phichit’s presence brought to his world. Nikiforov brought a passion offset within a few hours that continued to inspire and carry Yuuri for a lifetime. A separate life that directed how he danced and leaked into his music, his deft flicks of the wrist mimicking Nikiforov’s fluid movements. But Yuuri was deeply aware that he and Nikiforov were not intertwined, that the admiration he felt for Nikiforov was met by the other not even knowing of his existence. It was one-sided, shallow when considered objectively, but it was the closest Yuuri had ever felt to this sort of rush.

Because then there was Phichit, now personally intertwined with Yuuri.

Phichit and Yuuri simply _clicked_. It was a fast friendship that both would undoubtedly cling to and work for. And it was the greatest comfort Yuuri could have imagined, the other musician helping cast off his homesickness and ease his anxiety when facing the world. He was not an ultimate solution, but he seemed like it.

It was from this building trust that Yuuri invited Phichit to attend the underground club, _Ice Castle_ , one Friday evening. Phichit had been privy to Yuuri’s other compositions and considering his preference for excitable tunes; Yuuri figured Phichit could be trusted with his original rag performances. They were all his, the songs that lured in the high-strung youth and repelled the old, and that was enough of a reason for Phichit to be let into his secret.

“I don’t get it, where’s the theater?” Phichit joked as Yuuri held the club’s door open for him. Yuuri lightly pushed him to the side, sporting a sheepish grin.

At precisely 8 o’clock Yuuri took his place at the piano, immediately beginning his set. He only had a few rags in his portfolio as of yet, but he had a working order for the ones he did have. It was played like a story, the first note quiet and the subsequent ones becoming more erratic until the final song, a slower but spirited song that always left his audience with a good taste after he had stepped away from the stage. The cohesive whole he learned from ballet helped him tremendously here, even if his story was not yet finished. Even if he could feel the strings pulling his story up to the climax before snapping but still lacking the details. His songs told a definitive love story, the romantic interest left unnamed, even to himself.

Although…

Maybe this was a story he should have played for Phichit in their apartment. Away from the club and its patrons. Yuuri always had his head down when he was performing, not caring to notice his audience or the dance trends that they experimented with. That might have been worth noting before inviting a minor to the show.

The dances were risqué, needless to say.

Two-step sequences with couples closer together than what Yuuri was accustomed to. The beginnings of the bunny hug that were driven from the fast-paced tempos of ragtime, dances that seemed obscene to Yuuri’s more sheltered and traditional perspective. Paying attention to trends had become less and less pressing to him with age, keeping him from noticing the shifting trends of America despite being at their forefront. Despite being present for the greatest changes in dance in Detroit since moving here.

Skirts flashing across the room as girls turned their hips and brought their ankles together. Guys in black tailcoats holding their hands out in temptation for their partners to need help in their glides. It was a style Yuuri had never seen before, completely new and adaptable to his rags, easy for him to learn from watching alone. Lively things that caught the rhythm of Yuuri’s melodies and elaborated upon them, the music and the dance seeming as if they had caused each other, if Yuuri did not know better.

It was his first occasion of having a reason to glance up from his sheet music, unconsciously checking on whether Phichit was enjoying himself. What was proud curiosity dropped to concern upon his noticing the dance, not entirely sure if this was the type of crowd he should be exposing the younger musician to.

It was all so indecent, improper for public. He yearned to add: _far too racy for my music_. But how could he say this honestly when they kept in time with him so perfectly? When he knew well how quick and jaunty his songs could be at their height? This style was the most befitting of his rags that he could imagine, completely new rules to match his revolutionary compositions. And over the shock, the concern for Phichit, he loved every second of the dancing.

He would have to quell that if he had any self-respect.

“Phichit I am so sorry, I didn’t know-” Yuuri started the moment his shift was over, the words planning to continue even though he did not know where he would be taking his speech yet. His eyebrows were furrowed, the apology genuine despite his reluctant thoughts moments before.

“Yuuri! That was amazing! Are you sure you don’t want me to tell Celestino?” Phichit looked up from his table with bright eyes, his foot noticeably tapping the rhythm that Yuuri had just finished.

So much for his worries over Phichit’s decency. He’s not quite sure it ever existed.

“Yeah, I’m sure. He always asks me about my classical compositions and never whether I like anything else. And he’s our music instructor. I’m pretty sure that he wants us to focus on more respectable works. Not… _this_ ,” he finished lamely then glanced at the rest of the club, now in the throes of another dance. His relationship with _Ice Castle_ was complex, a balance between shame and pride that rested solely on whether he was at the keyboard.

“Fair enough, I guess. But he’s sure gonna be surprised when you hit the papers as the next big name in ragtime. How come you never told _me_ you could create such bright music? No, never mind that, of course you can. But you should at least try to publish the sheet music, give others a chance to hear your masterpiece.”

And Phichit was right. He _could_ create bright music when he set his mind to it. His more reserved compositions might be thoroughly drenched in his fears, his self-conscious view of life, but this was the one area he could allow what passions he did have to accumulate. To play music that was exactly as spirited as he imagined Nikiforov to be.

_It might do him some good to find some other muse that was an actual constant in Yuuri’s life, though that was unlikely to happen with the ballet fast approaching_.

An airy laugh. “They’re not masterpieces yet! But I’ll deal with the perfect rag when it finally comes to me.”

He paused, trying to word the one fear that always went hand-in-hand with his rags, especially now that he had seen the dances that they invoked.

“You don’t think they’re too unrespectable do you? I mean, you saw the dances that went with my songs. They’re definitely a far cry from my ballet compositions. These probably won’t even stand the test of time, just part of some low-brow fad.”

“You’re kidding. Forget the dances. This crowd could dance like this to Chopin’s _Nocturnes_ if they had a mind to. They’re tipsy, I bet. Your rags are perfectly respectable; it’s just that no one knows that yet. And you know why that is? Because you need to share them more, Yuuri! You were amazing up there! You would make them the _most_ respectable works out there. Maybe I should start getting into ragtime; we can pave the genre together.”

“You’re right.” His laugh was shaky but his new burst of confidence genuine. “As you always are. And you should. We’ll make classical music jealous because it couldn’t have us to itself. We’ll make something good of this trend yet.”

He could not fully explain it, but there was relief at sharing his new love with Phichit and getting a favorable review in return.

It made going to see _Coppélia_ all the sweeter, knowing that what he brought to the music world was good enough for Phichit. Surely if his works were good enough for energetic Phichit, they would be good enough for Nikiforov, who danced as if he could walk on air, fueled by some eternal flame. Good enough for the man who must be the personification of grace and beauty itself. He would make all other ballets starring Nikiforov look simple, lifeless - if that was possible - and pale in comparison to his lively story. He would make every leap and spin perfected by Nikiforov so far seem dull once it was strengthened by the backdrop of Yuuri’s true masterpiece.

He just had to finish it, to find the final spark that would add such endless depth to his story. The framework was there, unshakeable, but something was missing. Something Yuuri still held faith in finding.

At the base of his desire, he wanted to create something so beautiful that Nikiforov would _want_ to dance to it, to _inspire_ the dancer as Nikiforov had inspired him. And he held faith that he would accomplish this someday, as some cosmic balance of giving back what he had borrowed. Of tipping the scales so that Nikiforov shared in the benefits of Yuuri’s rise as well.

Or, at least, that’s how all of his daydreams went.

Yuuri and Phichit had good seats, near the stage and toward the center; there were benefits of Yuuri dragging them both to the theater early. They were both in their very best, Phichit in his old-fashioned suit and Yuuri in the tailcoat jacket he wore for all of his recitals. It was a fantastical precaution beyond just the societal expectations: Yuuri was hoping to find the courage to compliment Nikiforov as Yuuko had done years before. Maybe with Phichit’s contagious excitement he would finally do it. The thought crossed his mind on repeat.

Neither said much before the ballet began, Yuuri glancing back to the stage far too often for anything to be said. And then the curtains were pulled aside for the first act, and Yuuri looked at nothing else, leaning slightly forward in his seat.

Viktor Nikiforov was not the star of this ballet, the title instead belonging to ballerina Mila Babicheva, a Russian associate of Nikiforov. She was graceful, able to replicate the mechanic movements central to her briefly doll-like character and garnishing a stream of compliments by critics in many of her ballets, but it was Nikiforov that stole Yuuri’s breath away once his character was introduced.

Again.

Because Nikiforov was everything that Yuuri had remembered and exalted for all these years.

Because he was better than even that, his movements somehow more adept than those still imprinted in Yuuri’s memory.

Because he really _was_ breathtaking, to more audience members than just Yuuri. Even Phichit sat up straighter at the dancer’s entrance, mesmerized with the rest of the crowd at his obvious skill.

Because he was elegant.

Beautiful.

Ethereal.

Godly.

All of it, every kind word Yuuri could think of.

Everything Yuuri admired, in his skill and passion.

And way too good for Yuuri to stand next to. To bother him with stuttered compliments and an uncomfortable blush. To let him dare gather the confidence he had been yearning to all these years.

 

* * *

 

 

_Detroit, 1904_

It had been a tiring month, switching from the high of winning his seventh consecutive figure skating championship in Berlin to the familiar rush of performing in another ballet.

Performing internationally was a different change of pace, something he did not mind every once in a while. It also provided him with the chance to see Christophe Giacometti again, an old friend in the ballet world though based in Switzerland. On the rare occasions when he had a ballet abroad Christophe was usually cast alongside him.

They were the best, after all.

_Coppélia_ was easier for him at least, being more than willing to let Mila take center stage after the last figure skating competition had just finished. He would have plenty of other chances to prove his prowess in ballet more grandly once again.

After their final bow Viktor lingered onstage with Christophe, accustomed to greeting fans enough that he was known for being charming, for being kind. They could both draw crowds in their own right, Christophe just as natural in the spotlight though he tended to have _different_ sort of fans.

The man exuded sex appeal, even in the most graceful of arts.

“Anything new, Vitya?”

“Don’t you read the newspapers? Everyone’s worried about my winning the Europeans in figure skating next year.” Viktor gave him an easy smile, unaffected by the supposed pressure.

“Good thing you’re still only in two of those. I’d hate to see us lose you for good.”

“If I could, I would. It’s time for Mila to become the world’s best dancer.” The smile grew to a brief laugh. Christophe’s pout always made his jokes worthwhile.

“And let you keep laughing as I stay second best? That’s cruel, Vitya.”

Viktor only gave him a shrug and a smirk before turning back to the theater as they met a few admirers in front of the stage.

The crowd was a fair-size; they always were when he performed internationally. The motions were always the same too. Scribble his signature a few times ( _remember Latin script here!_ ), give a few words of encouragement for hopeful children, accept more than a few compliments with a smile. Most disbanded once they had gotten what they came for, thinning out the crowd gradually.

After a penultimate signing there was only one person left, a boy with one of the most intense gazes he had gotten yet. Another man, not much older, stood a few paces up the aisle, out of the way. Viktor simply assumed he was waiting for the younger and tilted his head, wondering if it was him or Christophe that had made them stay behind.

Before he could ask the boy stepped up on his own, an inviting grin naturally crossing his face and a pen and paper in hand.

“Hi! I’m Phichit. I was hoping to get an autograph for my friend Yuuri. That’s two u’s, by the way.” He held out the pen and paper to Viktor, issuing a word of gratitude once the paper was signed.

“He’s a big admirer of yours, my friend,” Phichit continued. “He’s a composer, a really good one too. He’s a huge hit in Detroit; he even inspired a whole new dance style. I could totally hook you up if you ever want something more hanging to dance to.”

_Was that a wink?_

_Was he just offered a music connection, with a wink?_

“Oh, I…”

For all of his independence, Viktor was usually prone to whichever ballet was going to be orchestrated at the moment. Figure skating was thankfully different as he had his music specially composed for his routines. He always had the final say in who was hired, what sort of song they composed, over any of Yakov’s suggestions.

Viktor had just never been _approached_ by such an offer before. He assumed it would always be the other way around.

It took him a few seconds longer than it should have to formulate a response, but by then Christophe was talking. Talking _for him_.

“Well, we can’t really control what music gets put into ballets. I imagine your friend already knows that. But as I understand it, Viktor has free reign with the music that he uses for his figure skating. If that’s something he’d be into?”

“Definitely!”

“Perfect! Here, let me-” Christophe ripped off a piece from the paper Phichit was holding and snatched the pen, writing down an address before handing both back. “Here’s where we’re staying, just have your friend tell the concierge to call Viktor and remind him about this conversation. He’ll be happy to hear your friend’s music.”

“Yeah, everything Christophe said. But there is a chance Yakov will answer instead, just so you know. He’s alright, though. He’ll listen for me if I’m out,” Viktor added. He leaned against the stage, settling back into an easy grin.

“Noted! Thanks for everything!” Phichit flashed them both one more appreciative smile before waving his farewell and returning to his friend. Viktor watched them briefly as Phichit excitedly handed the autographed slip of paper to the other, the smaller strip having been tucked into his pocket, and took the lead toward the exit.

Viktor swore Phichit’s friend beamed when he saw the autographed paper.

But it could have been nothing.

He was too far away to get a clear look.

Once they were alone Viktor turned to Christophe, mockingly punching his arm and frowning.

“What?” Christophe drawled, feigning innocence.

“You know what.”

“Listen, it just seemed like a good idea. Aren’t you the one always complaining about having to find better composers for your routines? Well now I just helped bring one to you. Honestly, Vitya, you should be thanking me for my services.” His head was tilted back, fingers splayed against his chest.

He had always been so dramatic.

“Yes, Christophe, thanks for giving my address to a complete stranger. We don’t even know if his friend is any good. Wouldn’t that be an awkward position to put me in!”

He was really hoping Phichit’s friend was good. Phichit seemed nice enough, surely he kept good company.

“Come now, I’m sure he’s just fine. What did that kid call him? A big hit in Detroit or something. Are you calling him a liar, Vitya? That’s not nice of you.”

“No, I’m not-”

“Just wait and see. You won’t regret this.” Christophe closed the conversation then suddenly, walking backstage.

It was always customary for the dancers to go out for dinner after a show. The conversation they had been having was promptly forgotten.

 

* * *

 

 

They had gone out for dinner after the ballet at Phichit’s insistence. Yuuri held the paper decorated with Viktor Nikiforov’s signature protectively on the walk over to one of their frequented restaurants, only carefully folding it and putting it in his pocket once they had gotten their food.

Phichit had been suppressing a grin ever since they had left the theater. Yuuri had tried to explain it as simply pride that he had gotten his friend such a treasured item, but the way Phichit kept glancing at him suggested a bit more.

“What’s going on, Phichit?”

This didn’t seem to be the time for talking Phichit into telling the truth, bluntness being his best weapon when Phichit seemed so close to spilling his secret anyway.

“Well… since you asked.” Phichit produced a small piece of paper and offered it across the table, pushing his plate aside. “I got a surprise for you.”

Yuuri peered at the writing before looking back at Phichit, confused. “An address?”

“Correction: _Viktor Nikiforov’s_ address.”

“Come again?”

“That, my friend, is the address to where Viktor Nikiforov is currently staying. That friend of his-”

“Christophe Giacometti.”

“-gave it to me. He said-”

“Wait. Phichit. How did you manage to get-”

“Will you let me finish?” Phichit raised his eyebrows, silencing Yuuri’s high-strung confusion. “Shh.”

“Now as I was saying,” the violinist continued with an air of satisfaction, “I told Viktor that you were a great composer and Christophe said Viktor might be searching for a composer for his next figure skating routine. He gave me his address and everything. You just have to go down there and ask for Viktor and play something for him. You _have to_ , Yuuri. Who knows when you’ll get a chance like this again!”

“But he’ll be leaving Detroit soon. Two more shows and then he’ll be gone.”

“Then you better hurry!”

Yuuri bowed his head, pleading for a moment to think as he tried to process Phichit’s rushed news. Getting the address of one’s muse with an offer to play for them was not exactly a daily occurrence. Especially for Yuuri.

_Leave it to Phichit to turn his reality upside down_.

“Okay… You told Vi- Nikiforov about me and Giacometti just _happened_ to offer that?” Yuuri looked at Phichit blankly, giving into his need for every detail.

“Well, not exactly. After I told _Viktor_ that you’re a great composer, I told him you would compose something for him if he ever wanted.”

“And what did he say?”

“Oh, no Viktor didn’t say anything. That’s when Christophe told me about the figure skating and everything. Almost forgot! Viktor told me that some guy called Yakov might answer _when_ you go there, but you can play for him instead.”

“Yakov Feltsman is Nikiforov’s manager and coach,” Yuuri interjected.

“That makes a lot more sense. So there, now you can go there before he leaves and become Viktor’s new official composer! You’re welcome, Yuuri.”

“Phichit… What possessed you to do… _this_?” Yuuri buried his face in his hands, carefully reviewing everything he had ever said to Phichit to lead him to set this all up.

_No, there was no instance where Yuuri spilled his daydreams to Phichit_.

“Right. You can’t be this naive. C’mon Yuuri, when I moved in you had every newspaper about Nikiforov coming to Detroit out on the kitchen table. I’m pretty sure I saw duplicates in that pile. And you know where they all are now? Instead of in the trash like what a non-star struck person would do with them?”

“In my room-”

“In your room, Yuuri! Along with all your other articles about his ballets and figure skating. And photographs of him and the ballets he’s in. Going back quite a few years, I might add. Plus! Guess what you’ve been talking to me about nonstop for a week now?”

“Ballet.”

“No. Well, okay. Viktor Nikiforov _and_ ballet. But most of your ballet talk was about Viktor. You must have told me about the first time you saw him _five times_. More than that. And the rest was about his other ballets and their plots and what part he had and his figure skating career and literally everything you know about that. Even though that wasn’t about ballet.”

“Sorry, I-”

“It’s okay, Yuuri. It is. Don’t get me wrong, you’re my best friend now and I’m alright with listening to you talk about Viktor and whatever else. But _that_. _That_ is why I went and talked to Viktor about you. I was just doing something I thought you’d like. Can you blame me?”

“No,” Yuuri sighed. He couldn’t deny a word of that. “Thank you, Phichit. I _do_ appreciate it. I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“You’re welcome, Yuuri!” Phichit grinned. “So you’re gonna do it, right?”

Hesitation.

Was _he going to do it?_

_Yuuri had never met Nikiforov, had only watched and followed him from afar. For all of Phichit’s boasting over Yuuri’s skill in music, the compliments and assumed resulting confidence rarely sunk in. Most of the time he could not believe that he was a composer at all, certainly not a_ good _one. Certainly not good enough to compose something for Viktor Nikiforov. His idealization of Nikiforov and low self-esteem simply did not mix, could not allow him to dare take the chance when these two parts of his very nature were both present._

_His ballet went unfinished, his rags to be kept underground permanently as far as he was concerned. And neither of these could be good enough for Nikiforov to be subjected to, not when his works were still missing some essential element. How could he ask Nikiforov to skate to a composition of his when his works’ backbone was missing, even if the rest was relatively filled out? How could he ask Nikiforov to choreograph a routine to his composition when the composer himself could not tell whether he liked his own works or not?_

_It was cruel to expect such a kindness from someone he didn’t even know. From the very person who inspired him to compose in the first place._

_But telling Phichit ‘no’ after his going through the trouble to get Yuuri such a chance was another matter, one just as pressing as his sparing Nikiforov._

“I don’t even know what kind of music he skates to,” Yuuri managed after a long moment.

“ _What?_ You don’t know the exact music he skates to? Why, Yuuri, what sort of admirer are you?” Phichit cried, eyes wide and hand stern against his chest in mocked surprise.

Yuuri rolled his eyes and gave a staccato laugh. “I’m poor, Phichit.”

“Ah yes. Fair enough.”

“Seriously, though, what would I even compose for a _figure skating routine?_ All I know about it is from the newspapers.”

“Well… Maybe one of your ballet compositions?”

“No, not those. All of my ballet pieces so far have been for a complete whole. I guess it’d kind of ruin the rest of it if I let Nikiforov use one and _only_ one of the songs. Plus, they _are_ meant to go together for the whole story. It wouldn’t be right with just one, theme wise. The rest of its meaning would be missing, wouldn’t it?”

“A rag, then?”

“ _Phichit!_ ” He shook his head firmly when Phichit gave him a shrug and look of confusion. “He’s a figure skater. Not a Moulin Rouge showgirl.”

Phichit shrugged again, at a loss. “Better start thinking, though. When does he leave?”

“Tuesday, I’m guessing.”

“Let’s shoot for Monday, just to be sure.”

“Great, two days. That’s _plenty_ of time.”

“Yeah! Plus we have tonight and Monday morning.”

“I’ll rephrase then: two days with no sleep.” Yuuri paused for a second, still mulling over whether he should really go through with this or not. Yet, with how much excitement Phichit was using in persuading him to go, he’s fairly certain he would lose that contest eventually anyway. Pushing back from the table they were seated at, he finished, “We better get going.”

Phichit nodded triumphantly and followed Yuuri out of the restaurant, obviously aware that he had gotten Yuuri to write a song for Nikiforov. It was a rather proud moment for him in their friendship; Phichit had a lot of those.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a staggering amount of work.

Yuuri hadn’t written a composition in just one day since he learned about ragtime, and even then he had spent weeks afterward perfecting it. His eventually performing it onstage was the direct result of his continuous efforts.

Composing and perfecting a song in only a couple of days was impossible. Even if he knew Viktor Nikiforov personally. Even if Yuuri knew the _exact_ type of music he skated to and could potentially make a routine from. But as it stood, he didn’t even know if figure skating had time constraints. Composing something substantial, something he could be proud of, was impossible when he was so lost to begin with.

“I mean, how long could they skate for? Can’t be more than a few minutes, right?” Phichit asked; it sounded more like a prayer.

Yuuri shrugged, eyebrows furled. “Maybe just plan for a couple of minutes and if he likes it then I can write it to be longer later?”

“Perfect!”

Yuuri had taken Friday evening off from the Ice Castle to see the ballet, but he would be back onstage the next day. The dwindling time he had would be more stressful if he wasn’t grateful for the reprieve that it would provide him. Performing rags at a club may not be the best use of his time at the moment, but there had to be some break over the weekend for him to play something he that wanted to, that came to him naturally.

“Here, maybe you just need to get started.” Phichit jabbed at one of the piano keys back in their apartment. “There! That’s your first note.”

“That deep a note? For Viktor Nikiforov? No way, Phichit. We need a better note for him.”

“A better note?”

“Yeah. A higher one.”

“We’re not going to get anything else done tonight, are we?” Phichit groaned, not able to stay awake _and_ walk Yuuri through his perfectionist composing process. He had already done his work for the day.

Relinquishing the keyboard from his one attempt, Phichit sunk back down to the floor beside the piano bench. He leaned his head against Yuuri’s side, eyes fluttering shut and waiting for an answer.

“No.”

The next day was not promising either. By the time he had to leave for Ice Castle, Yuuri had already gone through several possible stanzas before scrapping them all. He was impatient to play his rags, though he kept that irritation to himself; Phichit assumed his restlessness was part of his thinking process. But he needed the time away, to catch up with everything over his normal routine.

Yet the composition he needed to pull out of thin air lingered in his mind as he performed his set of rags. It would add all that more irritation to the situation, its possibly tainting the escape Yuuri found at Ice Castle, if not for his mind being miraculously cleared from the moment he began. He had grown used to playing these songs and he could run through most of them by memory now, with little thought required. It was a relaxing routine, one that left space in his head for composing as his stress fell away under the dim lights. He transitioned easily into a calmer state at the keyboard, reciting merry tunes that could be played with ease, knowing for sure the appeal his music had without having to be watched intensely to read it in the reactions. It made sense to him that the one place where he had always found solace from the world and within it would also provide him with the clarity needed for creation, for working through whatever issue he was facing at the moment.

Midway through the second song he glanced up, still marveling at the dancers who had fabricated new dances solely for his rags. None of them were professionals, Yuuri could bet on that, but he had still elicited such lively dances from them. They could never hold a candle to Nikiforov, but this was all _his_. _He_ had inspired this audience, these dancers, this dance. _He_ had been a driving force behind a trend that spread throughout the city and beyond. _He_ was an inspiration, whether the rest of the music world would ever recognize it or not.

Yuuri knew that Phichit had been trying to reassure him, but he also knew too well that this crowd would not have danced like this to just anything. He had ghosted the club for a few months now, usually seated in the audience long enough to watch a few sets, watch a string of performers who only had two paths before them come and go night after night. He had seen other composers fail before, the crowd not rising to this level of energy during their performances, these dances not even being choreographed until Yuuri had taken the stage. The rags he had heard before were prototypes, lacking the thrills of emotion running through his own two-minute tunes. He had pulled the genre further in progress. Where others fell flat, Yuuri excelled. Where his ballet was still left uncompleted, his rags could succeed effortlessly even when he felt something was missing from them. This was all Yuuri’s, his pride and embarrassment.

_And if he could make the Detroit youth dance so vigorously, then why not Viktor Nikiforov, a professional?_

_All of his thoughts were consumed with his low self-esteem, and a great amount of his own being was inspired by Viktor Nikiforov. But if he was going to make this composition work, something had to give. Something had to be ignored entirely if he was going to perform an original composition for his first and greatest muse. Or else risk losing the will to do it at all._

_So if he had to choose between idealizing Viktor Nikiforov or letting his self-esteem drag him down in order to compose something for Nikiforov, then this was the time to decide._

_This was his domain. Music was his life, his love. Why couldn’t he find the confidence for this one area where others fell? Find the confidence and keep the muse that inspired him more than he had ever admitted to himself until now?_

_So just for now, for the next few days, his low self-esteem could be pushed aside. Inflated by the love he felt for music and his muse. He could give everything, forcibly accept his worth, play on the easy grace Nikiforov had indirectly taught him and win him over with a composition, the very culmination of his career._

_It would be enough._

_He had to finish this piece and sustain his courage enough to play it. Bring the power he felt in Ice Castle to his greatest daydream and flourish from it._

_It would inspire Viktor Nikiforov, sooner than he had ever hoped._

The [melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nROJcoQUyRc) was bright and fast-paced. At a glance, it had the atmosphere of a classical piece, perfectly suitable for an athletic competition, though it also possessed the lively tempo he had come to love in his rags.

“How’d you do that so fast?”

Phichit narrowed his eyes at Yuuri as he shifted between composing on the keyboard and rushing to record the notes on paper. A few candles melted in their saucers above the piano and on a table next to them, lighting Yuuri through the evening long after the club had closed for the night. Phichit occupied a corner of the piano bench, having pushed Yuuri aside.

“Ice Castle” accompanied with yawning silence then the twinges of piano keys were the only answer he was able to get out of Yuuri.

It was not until the early morning that he finally set down his pen and stretched, calling the first draft of the work finished. Perfecting the song, changing out notes for marginally better ones, was a grueling undertaking that compromised all of Sunday. There was a good chance that he would have kept at it throughout the night if Phichit had not forced him to get some sleep for the next day.

“What good will you be to Viktor if you’re too tired to play?” Phichit had lectured, pushing Yuuri off to bed.

Phichit’s enforcement of sleep had been beneficial as Yuuri woke early the next morning. He combed through the song a few more times, making last minute changes that occurred to him with a fresh start, then a couple more to make sure he could perform it perfectly.

He was not dressed in his best suit, recently pressed, and out the door until well after noon, the sheet music and the scrap with Nikiforov’s address held tightly in his hands.

The paper with Nikiforov’s autograph had been placed beside his newspaper collection on Friday, neat and separate to mark its importance. Yuuri could believe in it far more than he could believe in this chance, needing the physical reminder to ground him throughout the previous days. If not for that, his mind might have rejected the notion of Phichit talking to Nikiforov entirely, despite his being there when it happened.

“You look perfect. Your song is perfect. If Nikiforov doesn’t see that: I never really thought he had good taste in music anyway. Remember what you’re gonna say?” The words were emphasized with Phichit’s hands clasped on Yuuri’s shoulders, a hug added as he finished.

Yuuri had nodded at the end of Phichit’s motivational speech, thankful for his giving it. Phichit had realized Yuuri’s anxiety early on in their friendship as they had been inseparable since meeting and had a few ideas on how to help. Reassurance and preparedness for such nerve-wrecking situations were always a good place to start.

Depending on the confidence he had accumulated on Saturday evening and the soothing words from Phichit, Yuuri briskly made his way to the address listed.

He was running rather late as it was, the sky above starting to darken when he reached the front doors of Nikiforov’s hotel.

The hotel was huge, a luxurious first-class affair befitting the world’s best ballet dancer. It was a scene Yuuri did not feel like he belonged in, with the building’s sweeping marble staircase and wide entrances peering into fully furnished lounges and expansive banquet halls. Attendants in royal violet were everywhere, providing an extensive customer service that he would never have dreamed of at Yu-topia Katsuki. A concierge desk was placed across from the front doors, tall and covered in neatly ordered forms, complete with an older woman with an upturned nose.

It was overwhelming.

Even in his very best, Yuuri felt shabby here.

He pressed onward, approaching the desk and getting her attention.

“Excuse me. I was just- I want to speak to Viktor Nikiforov.”

The name felt too grand for his tongue, too important to ask for when it was coming from _him_.

“About?” the concierge asked coldly.

He winced; _she must have thought that he was just another fan trying to gain access to a celebrity._

_And he was, wasn’t he?_

“I, well my friend- I mean, Mr. Nikiforov’s giving me a chance to audition to compose the music for his next figure skating routine.”

His throat felt too dry after that, realizing how clumsy the words felt when coming from his lips. He was trembling, but he ignored it, instead focusing on meeting the concierge’s eye contact.

It was a lot.

If she believed him, if she called, if Nikiforov remembered him, if he still wanted to hear Yuuri’s composition - assuming he ever truly did in the first place - he could be meeting _Viktor Nikiforov_ in a few short moments.

The concierge called over an attendant and had him run and fetch Viktor Nikiforov, ask whether he would come, after getting Yuuri’s name and a few more forced, qualifying details.

He might be frozen in place, but he had to give Nikiforov some clues as to his identity after all.

_If only the moments felt short instead of eternal._

_If only every second did not awash him in renewed fears of Nikiforov rejecting him. Based on his music, who he was. Of Nikiforov refusing to meet him at all._

_Though that immediate refusal might be preferred; a heart-wrenching but overall easier alternative to meeting him then being turned away personally. Insulted personally. Wasn’t that supposed to be the standard when people meet their idols?_

_Shouldn’t he be expecting disappointment?_

_Shouldn’t he be expecting to be turned away in a place like this? By a man like Viktor Nikiforov? He had no name to himself, so why would the higher reaches of society ever accept_ him _?_

_He almost hated the part of him that held onto hope of acceptance. But it was this part that was also clinging to his courage, making him stay and wait to see his fate_.

After a few minutes the concierge returned, leading an older man.

Yakov Feltsman.

Yuuri couldn’t recall a time when he ever felt more disappointed. This was far worse than what he had been imagining.

 

* * *

 

 

He had only stepped away for a while, indulging in his tradition of recent years to grab a drink after a weekend of successful shows.

Not that celebrations among his troupe weren’t common, his fellow dancers often planning to go out for dinner, attend galas, do everything together when they were in the middle of a show. It was an unspoken custom for them, started long before Viktor had joined, and one that he had enjoyed over the years. Comradery was essential to him in his art and helping build a solid relationship with his troupe was what kept their shows running so smoothly, what made them one of the best in the world.

But, as his career and reputation had become established, he needed these moments away from the dizzying heights of being so interconnected with others. Onstage, he was his character, completely and irrefutably, always leaving the show with a part of his role integrated in him. Off stage, he was the leader of the troupe; popular, charming, outgoing, _happy_. It was hard to sustain for years at a time, always reinventing his very core for another role and always putting on a cheery face for his troupe.

Sometimes he had to wonder whether there was anything beneath his ever-shifting surface. Lonely moments when sitting among his friends, still dressed in whatever costume he had worn for that night’s performance.

But of course there was.

There had to be.

Objectively, he knew this. There had to be more to him than carefully built confidence and fictional roles, because something had pulled him into ballet in the first place. Some internal and eternal desire had persuaded him to front as the leader for years on end. There was a love beyond all of the shifting personality traits, in his art and in himself, that made him want to be _this_. He was the best in his craft; that had to be some indication of the strength and passion still at his foundation, a reason for his having chosen these adopted traits for himself in the first place.

It was why he had to step away at the very end. Give himself some reprieve when the rest of his troupe was sightseeing or getting ready to leave Detroit.

Perched on the barstool in his hotel’s restaurant, he collected himself. Let every emotion he had worn for the stage to wash away, leaving just him.

His easy smiled crumbled to a frown, though his posture remained perfect, his very appearance perfect aside from the subtle distraught in his features. Grim, unsettled. But he still sat up straight, had some class. Pride had remained a constant for him and he couldn’t let it slip from him now.

And some desperate knowledge clambered for his attention. This somber mood was not the real him. Maybe now when he had only just dropped his latest role. But it couldn’t be _him_ in the long run. He was so much more, even over his various facades, a disconnected whole that he could not piece together yet. A collection of details with no underlying theme that could be found within the free time he had. He would see the full picture sooner or later, but now was not the time.

Viktor was still at his peak. Every theater and composer wanted to hire him, he easily won every figure skating competition with a skill never seen on the ice before. He could claw himself higher, stain the history books with his name. He was not finished taking the world by storm, not done showing everyone the new sides of him.

So he would keep resurrecting himself with a new name. He would cement the basic idea of him in everyone’s mind: he was the best in what he loved. What else could he be than what he felt such passion for?

Lifting the crystal glass in his hand, he threw his drink back and waved the bartender over for another shot. He deserved it; his performance in this ballet had been spectacular.

He had left Yakov in their shared hotel room. This little tradition had always been something to do alone, without even his ever-present coach at his side.

Viktor knocked back the fresh drink quickly then stood up. They were leaving Detroit tomorrow and he had some good sense to not get a hangover on an early morning.

The hotel was five-stars, large with decadent interiors, plenty of attendants, the scene that he had grown accustomed to. He preferred his apartment back in St. Petersburg but he had never minded hotels either.

He had a room up on the top floor, but everything of interest was on the ground floor, rooms branching off the main lobby. He had already frequented the restaurant, complete with the bar he had made use of now, but he was also aware of the sprawling lobby, banquet hall, two parlors that both sported live bands later in the evening, and he could swear there was a pool somewhere. He hadn’t paid much mind to these amenities, always busy with practice and ballet and his troupe, but there was a faint delighted feeling at knowing that all of this was casually at his fingertips. Even if he didn’t use any of it, even if he was only vaguely aware that the bands would not begin their sets for another hour.

Strolling out of the restaurant, he made his way down the main hall toward the wide staircase, intent on finishing his packing then sleeping. The lobby was clear for the most part, this being the time most people were out for dinner.

It was the quiet that allowed him to hear it.

The concierge was checking in a businessman, a few others behind him talking and sending their muffled voices echoing across the room. But it wasn’t enough to prevent his hearing something else entirely.

Viktor stopped short where he stood, aware that it was coming from one of the parlors but fearing his interrupting the music.

The parlor was complete with a Steinway grand piano, glossy wood and bronze trimmings. At the bench was a pianist dressed in a prim black suit with a light blue flower tucked into its pocket, his head bowed over the keyboard in what Viktor assumed was determination. He could faintly see the edges of the sheet music, the papers splashed with notes that _had_ to have been the most beautiful things in existence.

As far as Viktor was concerned, there was nothing else but the small figure, the tune he coaxed from the piano keys, the expensive piano that still didn’t seem good enough to carry his music. He wasn’t sure any such instrument could exist.

For a brief moment, this performance was everything to him.

He had always had a habit of giving himself completely when he had found something he loved deeply. It had happened with ballet, then figure skating, and now the song sweetening the air. Each successive thing had engrained itself in him, intertwining with his very life, and he couldn’t imagine this song not following that process as well.

Viktor naturally assumed that the figure was a concert pianist. No doubt one of the best, a famed name across the globe.

He had to be.

Because the song was unlike anything he had heard before. Viktor had heard a wide range of music over the years, ballet music that would stand the test of time and popular songs he heard in the restaurants his troupe dined at and countless styles when having his routine music composed. He had interviewed and hired the best, personally listened to the master composers in every genre he could find.

_But this?_

Music was irreversibly a part of both sides of his life, guiding his movements so that he could lay out a story for spectators. Beyond that, it guided his life, because dancing _was_ his life and the accompanying music was what gave it shape. It was a part of him, in every role he had taken and in the confidence he slipped into in public. It was as important to him as the blood that ran through his veins, the choreography he followed, because it had formed so much of _him_.

And it was difficult to find pieces that he loved unconditionally. It was difficult for a single song to ring in every aspect of him.

_But oh, did this song bury itself in every corner of his soul_.

It was short, agonizingly so, and devoid of many of the deeper emotions that plagued him, but it was still _him_. It still made him stand inanimate where he had stopped, growing ecstatic at every note, dazed but hanging on it all.

How could he not be ecstatic at it? The keys sounded off quickly, barely having time to make their debut before another key sang out loudly. Scales that resided along the lighter side of the keyboard while a few duller notes tried to break through at times. Every lower note was swept away by the higher ones, insisting that the entire piece be bright and glittering. Melodic and inspiring. Fluttering notes that proclaimed joy at every skip forward. It was alive on its own, a piece that took effort to become stuck in one’s mind but felt natural there regardless. A remarkable piece that seemed like everything wonderful in the present that would fade to a nostalgic sepia with time, longing for that moment back. Like memories, like victories to be forgotten with the surmount of another one, like the joy of completing one’s dreams before it miraculously fades with the monotony of daily life, like the late afternoon sun sinking past the horizon.

Like every scattered and graceful step that he had taken in his dancing, like every inspiring word he had said to his troupe that was quickly forgotten, like the sense of self he could only briefly realize at times before being caught up in another role.

It was everything to him. It was _him_.

And it stopped too soon, the skittering notes falling to silence on a bright ending. The happiness that had filled him faded away, jaded by its absence. The wide lobby felt empty without it.

It was a piece that should be played in a grandiose concert hall, not the vacant parlor with no ensuing applause. The elaborate piano, the black suit, were not enough for the setting it deserved. It could have so much more, if Viktor could only be allowed to give it to the pianist. If Viktor only knew why it was being played in such a drab setting in the first place, could remedy it.

He watched as the figure stood up from the bench, collecting his sheet music. There seemed to be no reason to bow, and so he didn’t. Black hair, smoothed back pristinely, and an anxious look on his face.

_Why? His piece had been so beautiful, so lively_.

Only then did Viktor notice the older man in the room.

Yakov.

There had to be truth to the obvious connection. Why else would Yakov be there other than to judge whether the composer was worthy of creating Viktor’s next routine music?

Steeping with the realization that the music was for him, Viktor made toward the parlor, reaching the threshold.

Confusion tugged at the back of his mind, but briefly. He wasn’t officially looking for a composer yet, but _of course_. The boy back on the night of the ballet’s premiere and his composer friend, Christophe giving his address away freely. It had dropped from his mind with the subsequent performances, but now it was thrust to the forefront.

_The composer friend that had wanted Viktor’s autograph. The rising star of Detroit. A composer extraordinaire. So the boy had been right_.

The recalled memory was heartening, it now being undeniable that this composer was here for _him_. Had performed this melody for _him_. Maybe it was just a job, a chance taken to buffer his musical resume and gain some extra cash on the side. But how could he care when the music was so beautiful? When he could skate to the music that seemed fitting for a god?

Only then did Viktor understand the upset look on his face.

As he neared Yakov and the composer he began picking out their voices; Yakov’s brisk and condescending lecture, the composer’s quiet and bashful voice. He could see the composer’s posture slump, arms drawn around his body and hugging the sheet music close to his chest, head bowed again but now sorrowfully. A protective position, as though that could shield him from Yakov’s harsh tone.

Snippets began to reach him, mostly from Yakov.

“-nd it was presumptious of you to come here and perform such a piece. You know nothing of Mr. Nikiforov and _this_ is what you decide to present? This music is broken, and an athlete should have a more refined piece. Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry.”

Something else clicked in Viktor’s mind.

Had he remembered to warn Yakov?

Perhaps not.

And even if he had, Yakov didn’t seem too keen on the music anyway. Not that that alleviated his guilt any.

It didn’t.

It threatened to drown him. But he still had a chance.

“Clean up your act and _then_ try again. You’re good at the piano, kid, but something has to be done about the impropriety of your music.”

Another weak apology, a nod.

Obviously assuming that Yakov had finished - whether he had or not was questionable; his expression never changed - the composer ducked and left. It was miraculous that Viktor had reached the doorway because the composer was forced to stop for a second, to try to find an alternate route, giving Viktor a long enough second to speak.

“Wait, your music was amazing. Can you stay a moment and-?”

But the distraught expression on the composer’s face remained, lips tugged down and eyes shiny with what could only be tears. Mumbling another apology, a far too sincere one, he dodged Viktor and hurried across the lobby to the front doors.

“Wait!”

The composer didn’t turn at his call, only drawing further into himself as exited the hotel.

Viktor sprinted after him, shouting the word again as the figure disappeared beyond the hotel entrance. He kept running, through the lobby and the doors and onto the avenue beyond, glancing both ways rapidly.

But the black hair and coattails were gone, lost to the after-dinner street traffic. The man who had performed the most inspiring music he had ever heard was gone.

Turning back, Viktor thought through his options. Yakov was the first and most important resource he had in finding the composer, no matter how much he despised the older man right now. He caught Yakov leaving the parlor and pinned him in place, both hands digging into his shoulders.

“What was his name?”

“What are you-”

“The composer. What was his name? His address? Anything, Yakov. You had to have gotten _something_ of his.” Desperation and fury dripped into his voice, making it more uneven than usual.

“Um, Yuri. Something. That’s all I remember, Vitya, the kid didn’t speak much. What does it matter?”

Yakov pushed Viktor’s hands off of him with his own, giving him a shrug and hard look.

“I want to use his music for my routine. You caught nothing else?”

“ _That_? Vitya, you can do better than that. That piece was too erratic for someone of your skill. It was something to amuse children with. Or worse than that, knowing American culture. We’ll find a better composer for you, someone with class. Just wait a while, you’ll see.” Yakov patted his shoulder briefly before walking past him, back toward their hotel room. He had purposefully neglected to answer Viktor’s question.

Yuri.

Only that seemed wrong, not in line with what the boy from the concert had said.

_Yuuri, with two u’s_.

Rising concert pianist and composer of Detroit, Yuuri.

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor headed to the concert hall first, hurrying to check every venue he could think of before the night had worn on for too long. Before he would have to quit, return to the hotel, leave early the next morning.

He flagged down the first employee of the concert hall that he could find, a maintenance worker. But it was _someone_ , a person that was around frequently and _must_ have heard the names of its stars.

But no luck.

He tried a few more employees, a receptionist and a dark-haired harpist, before chalking up the concert hall as a loss and heading onward.

A couple of high end theaters, another concert hall, a few clubs for the elite of the city. Faces he quickly forgot and apologetic voices that meant nothing but disappointment to him.

No luck, no luck, no luck.

No recognition of the name _Yuuri_ from any of the employees, or the description Viktor would sometimes provide of Yuuri’s music, his appearance. He regretted not pressing Yakov for the title of the piece soon after.

He had a coach on hold, a swift one too as Viktor had impressed a large tip upon the driver for his speedy arrivals. Everything else could wait.

No luck, no luck, no luck.

A few more clubs for the middle class. Some more minor theaters.

For all that Viktor had seen in Yuuri’s music, Yakov had rejected him brutally. So why wouldn’t others? Wouldn’t those uninspired souls reject him outright, drive him away, for his progressively new music? Hide in the comfort of classical music and the conservative genres that remained prominent in that year? Yuuri was new, uncomprehensive and understanding and genius. Genuine. Possessing something that was lacking in the lofty and ornate pieces of the era. Why wouldn’t these old-fashioned judges reject him outright and brutally like Yakov had? Turn away his skill because it was too forward for them?

But he had to start at the very top first, at the high reaches and societal elite of Detroit. Because Viktor couldn’t imagine withdrawn yet powerful Yuuri being subjected to a working-class club when he should be the pride of a concert hall. He couldn’t and wouldn’t reconcile the image of Yuuri at the piano with anything but the large concert halls and popular theaters and absolute high society.

He could barely believe that the embellished grand piano was good enough for Yuuri. How could he check the lowest venues first? How could he be so insulting?

A few employees had promised to listen out for Yuuri’s name, to ask their coworkers and friends and anyone else they were connected with that could possibly have heard of him, to call at his hotel if they had tracked him down that night. Viktor trusted that the hotel would hold the message for him, regardless of whether Yakov approved of Yuuri or not.

It was well past midnight when Viktor gave up. He had wrung a few more addresses of clubs that stayed open so late from his chauffeur and a couple of employees from various other clubs. But the city was rapidly growing dark and he was at the end of his line.

His last destination was his hotel, though that wasn’t easily admitted.

The concierge relayed the news that there _was_ no news for him. No calls, no messages, no composers returning for a second chance. Nothing.

It was beyond disappointing. His mind supplied _heartbreaking_ to him, but that didn’t quite encompass the emptiness the now long-ended music had left him with either. He didn’t really care to describe this failure, regardless.

With an air of somber finality he left the concierge and retired, his mind vaguely reminding him that he had not finished packing yet. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it now.

Viktor fell back against his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling before his body finally forced him to sleep. His mind had replayed his seeing the withdrawn composer, unable to do justice to the bright music but at least managing to recall the slicked back black hair and coattails and bowed head at the piano.

He would have a very early morning.


	3. Half Empty, Half Full, and Drained

_Stockholm, September 1904_

The best manager and coach in the figure skating world, representative of seven-time World Champion Viktor Nikiforov, does not remain that way without making a few connections.

Figure skating itself was still sporadic and spiteful, not having the proper guards in place yet to ensure fair judgment in competitions. When a country hosted a World Championship, it typically chose its own judges, who in turn favorably rated the national figure skater competing that year. With such domestic bias, it was difficult to get a real edge in the competitions regardless of skill.

Yakov Feltsman had worked around that for years. Easily.

Decades spent integral in ballet troupes, in the gritty business of talent scouting and making deals with theaters for his dancers, had taught Yakov how to trump unfairness in the arts. Manipulating figure skating judges to tone their national pride down was simply part of his job. And he was good at it, a natural. Where else would he have developed such a useful set of lungs and constant scowl?

Yakov’s vocal triumphs gave his star skater a fair chance. Viktor’s and his own legendary triumphs then earned them a great many connections in the sport.

Which is how Yakov learned of the next location for the 1905 World Championships and assigned judges far earlier than most.

The championships had been in Stockholm before - only a few years previously, in fact. They had dealt with the officials there before, kept the Swedish judges in their place so that Viktor could easily bite back Swedish Ulrich Salchow and take home the gold fairly year after year. Every medal in Viktor’s possession was rightfully earned; no one could protest that.

They had a good system: Viktor never asked Yakov how he kept swaying the judges toward the moral side and Yakov never explained. They were both less stressed that way.

After having a discussion with the Swedish judges of the coming 1905 season, Yakov met with one more official he was acquainted with to put in a personal request. It was unheard of for _Yakov Feltsman_ to make a request on his own behalf, but the official figured that it was impossible to deny him. Yakov could hold too many strings and break every one if he a mind to do it. Surely it was best for everyone to keep him satisfied, a fair payment for a simple request.

“You know I’m not that involved in your annual banquets. I talk to sponsors for Mr. Nikiforov, that’s the only reason I go. But I noticed you hire a musician for the banquet every year and I have a request.”

“Of course, Mr. Feltsman.” The official blinked, then pulled out a piece of paper and pen. If this was all Yakov wanted, he was more than willing to oblige. “We’ll do the best we can to get whoever you want.”

“It shouldn’t be that hard. I found a young composer and pianist in Detroit. I bet he’s just starting out; you could hire him easily.”

“Name?”

“Katsuki Yuuri. He lives in Detroit. And performs all those new age songs the kids seem to like. Mr. Nikiforov liked him well enough. I’m sure the skaters would enjoy it,” Yakov shrugged, indifferent to the other skaters.

He was only requesting this as a reward for Viktor, it already being presumed that he would be winning the 1905 season as well. The composition Yuuri had auditioned with had been too radical for a serious athlete, but he supposed there could be no harm in letting him perform for Viktor outside of the rink. All of Viktor’s time was spent on his careers, his personal life and happiness falling to the wayside; Yakov thought it was time he had some payment besides medals and money. An award that meant something to him when the rest had faded and could no longer fill his life. And Viktor had been mentioning finding Yuuri someday and hiring him often enough, the most personal goal Yakov had heard from him in years, so he would be lenient just this once.

Give in even though Yakov’s sense of decency had been winning this internal conflict for months.

It was also requested in part to make Viktor stop talking about the composer so dejectedly for a while.

 

* * *

 

_Detroit_

The autumn semester of Yuuri’s freshman year had begun, throwing him into a more structured schedule rather than his previous mere semblance of one.

Complementary to his months of odd jobs in the small theaters was enough money to support himself and pay his tuition through to next summer. A majority of his work was dropped after that, only being resurrected during holiday breaks to give him something useful to do. Instead, his time was almost completely spent on his classes and training under Celestino - as Yuuri was now comfortable enough to call him - with interspersed days out and resting with Phichit.

Phichit himself had been enrolled in one of the finer schools in Detroit, studying toward getting his high school degree while attending various lectures by Celestino after school. His new schedule was only slightly less crowded than Yuuri’s as he was heavily involved in teaching Yuuri to play the violin and learning the piano in return. But Phichit tended to be a healthy person in habits, aware that both of them needed breaks from their busy lives and forcing Yuuri to that rule. It kept Phichit happy and Yuuri alive at all, always in check by Phichit’s discerning eye and concern, throughout their adjusting to the autumn.

The greatest difference between their schedules was Yuuri’s insistence on continuing to perform at Ice Castle every Friday and Saturday night.

There had been a lull, of course, back in the spring. After Yakov’s unmoving rejection Yuuri couldn’t bear to return to the stage for a few weeks.

Or do anything in particular, really.

It had kicked him down to the lowest he had ever felt: dejected and worthless and ashamed.

Ashamed, because that had to have been the most foolish thing he had ever done. Yakov was right: Viktor Nikiforov _was_ a professional athlete, demanding a respect that Yuuri had not provided. Nikiforov should be exposed only to the most melodic of songs, classical things befitting a king’s court, because that’s easily where Nikiforov could belong. Sophisticated compositions that captured his grace and tasteful ones that could dig deep down to his very soul and bring it to light. Compositions befitting coronations and art museums and the most ornate stages the world had to offer, performed by only the best musicians.

But instead Yuuri only had a work influenced by improper ragtime and himself to offer. As if that were enough! As if the piece he began writing in a club and was supposed to be the culmination of his career could be respectful enough for Nikiforov. As if the composer who truly had pride in the wretched thing could ever judge correctly what was befitting someone of actual talent. His work was an insult, and Yakov had been kind enough to tell him that, to give him the proper shame deserved by such a risky song.

Worthless, because what was supposed to be his masterpiece had, in reality, been his greatest embarrassment. If that was his best work, what could he possibly ever really have to offer? Everything he had to give had been strewn through that piece, all of his hard-earned skills and developing self-love and awe for his one and greatest idol, only to be rejected in its entirety. Even his very essence was not respectful enough, let alone worthy of approval.

The dancers of Ice Castle meant nothing to him now, despite how mean it seemed, because of this rejection.

Dejected, because - wouldn’t anyone feel that way when they learned their best work was shameful? When their very self was shameful? When their worth had been proved nonexistent? When they had basically insulted their idol through their greatest art? When everything they had spent years working for had been denied, crushed?

When they realized they would never be equal in their own field to the person who had been lighting a burning adoration and inspiration in them for years?

_And perhaps it was best this way, for Yakov to have shut him down so quickly. It wouldn’t have been fair to force that job on Nikiforov._

_Yet, he was still plagued by one regret: after all of his work throughout that previous weekend, all the confidence he had built up, he never even got to properly meet Nikiforov._

It had been too great for him to process while keeping up with the rest of his life. And for a while, Ice Castle received the brunt of his emotions as he blamed it for his shameful works and disrupting confidence. It had caused “Sunflower”, the love Yuuri found in the song and pain when it was rejected, and that didn’t seem forgivable.

Which is why he decided to take a break from Ice Castle for a while and focus on his more respectable gigs during his walk home. It was the first news to come from his tongue when he returned to Phichit’s expectant face, along with the panic still written in his expression.

The decision, of course, had been pointedly ignored as Phichit dragged the details of the audition out of him. Relaying what Yakov had said had been easy, it having been long enough ago by the time he returned for Yuuri to have convinced himself that he believed every word.

Phichit pressed on, to Yuuri’s objective irritation.

_Though talking was never a bad idea, as Phichit frequently reminded him._

“You mentioned Viktor was there. What’d he say? C’mon, Yuuri, he didn’t seem that mean when I talked to him. Surely he couldn’t have said any worse than that Yakov guy. And if he _was_ that mean to you, I’ll have to go ruin his day, too,” Phichit had asserted.

“Day?”

“You’re right. For ruining your _day_ he deserves to have his whole year ruined. Assuming he said anything.”

Yuuri had shrugged and choked out what Nikiforov had said, as closely as he could remember. He hadn’t been caught up on Nikiforov’s words, automatically having categorized them as pity, perhaps over Yakov lecturing him or how bad his song had been. It was pity nonetheless.

“Yuuri! That’s wonderful! I mean, he wasn’t being sarcastic, was he?” A shake of the head. “No? So he said you were great and meant it! Maybe you just have to try again and leave Yakov out in the middle of the desert or something.”

“It won’t work.”

“I know he’s leaving tomorrow, but it’s not that late. Maybe if you go down there again, Viktor will-”

“No, not the timing. If it was just the timing I could figure something out. But I think Yakov had a good point. ‘Sunflower’ isn’t exactly the height of culture-”

“Wrong.”

“-and not respectable enough for Nikiforov. I _cannot_ be the one who ruins his career, Phichit, and it’s a good thing Yakov told me that honestly.”

“But you don’t know if Viktor thinks that, too.”

“Yakov could convince him of it. Wouldn’t his coach have a pretty big say in the music he uses? He’d stop Nikiforov from hiring a bad composer or skating to a bad song. He’s there so Nikiforov can win, and ‘Sunflower’ is not winning material.”

“Okay, but Christophe said Nikiforov had independence in his routine music. I bet his word goes above that bastard’s opinion.”

“Just because he has independence doesn’t mean he’d hire me. He could get any musician he wants considering his fame and all. Why would he want me? He probably just pitied me. He remembered you saying I was a fan of his and he’s never mean to his fans so he was just being nice. It was pity.”

He paused, lips still parted.

“Would you mind telling Nishigori over at Ice Castle that I won’t be coming in for a while? I don’t think I can stand to be there right now.”

His knees had been drawn up to his chest, hands locked tightly across his calves and chin lowered, a pose he held a lot over the coming weeks as he mulled over his future.

But being depressed gets boring after a while.

His theater performances were easy, his heart never having to go into them, and he kept them up to sustain his livelihood. It was the closest thing to solace he could find during that time, under the cover of darkness as his scripted songs filled the theater. But there was no life for him there, not the rushed sort that he gained from his evenings at Ice Castle.

It was a chance for him to recuperate after such a harsh blow to his self-esteem, but Yuuri had a great love for his work and anything less was unsatisfying. He could not imagine living his life without ragtime, either before he found it or from now on, despite all the bad it had caused him.

Nor could he imagine it without the ballet and classical songs that had brought him this far safely, had given him goals within his reach. But there had been something missing in his ballet, increasingly obvious as he gave more of himself to the love of life that wound through ragtime. It no longer felt right to compose his ballet when he had given up ragtime, his subconscious knowing well that his self-love lived in one and not the other even though he put his heart and soul into both. That two different types of love had been formed in two forms, and it seemed as though life had just tried to rip both away from him.

And so he had composed nothing.

It was not until the edge of summer that Yuuri had returned to Ice Castle, Nishigori Takeshi not demanding of answers and instead simply sending his star performer back to the stage.

The club had fallen flat without Yuuri’s weekend shows and Nishigori was not about to drive him away now.

He fell back into his old set, guiltily pulling pleasure from every moment, every song. He had missed it as one might miss air, the relief filling his chest and returning him to life with a shock. His mind started working again as the songs wore into the night, reaping its own livelihood from the relief, and the despair was temporarily dispersed. The heaviness of the past few months temporarily lifted from his shoulders. It would return soon, settle back down on his chest and take away his air again once he was left alone with the night.

But for an hour or so, lost in his rags, he was free from that stifling weight and allowed to recover more quickly than before.

Depression got boring, and passion can be the most healing of medicines.

A month into summer, Yuuri had put a few new notes onto clean sheet music. He let them double, triple, reach three minutes of time, as naturally as he knew: nights of hurried recording and nights of silence, always in bursts. The piece was polished two months later and ready to debut.

Happiness was definitively not a word for the piece. It was unbearably fast-paced, a raced thing meant to leave any daring dancers out of breath.

The customers of Ice Castle tried to dance, to find the rhythm, but there was no denying the truth.

The piece was not well-received.

Yuuri removed it from his set.

He couldn’t say he was surprised. Even if it did contain all of the vibrancy of his other rags, it was a despondent piece at its core. It couldn’t match the thrilling wonder of the rest of his set.

And he knew he was still hurting, that it had been drained into the song. Some mutation of his pain and frustration disguised in the stepping tempos of ragtime.

The song was like soil: it had soaked up so much of his emotional distress, sacrificing itself for his mental health.

Yuuri didn’t mind hiding the song away after that. It had accomplished its purpose before making it to the stage. He would simply keep playing his older rags while working out how to find the lasting joy needed for a new one.

That joy could not find him after his performances. Any confident passion left with his final bow, being replaced by a more sullen and nihilistic passion.

He returned to his ballet compositions, finding himself able now that he had broken his creative silence. Every composition was rewritten, Yuuri finally having found what was missing in his story, the romance that had seemed so lifeless in his first drafts.

A couple months into the school year, Yuuri gave Celestino a copy of all the ballet songs he had written for the story so far. It was a fairly thick pile, the songs covering the basic plot points of the ballet. He presented them neatly to Celestino with the promise that he was working on the rest and simply felt it time to get some approval before moving on.

Celestino’s response a few weeks later was promising.

 

* * *

 

 

_December 1904_

For all the turmoil his life had succumbed to, Yuuri still found time for Ice Castle. School, perfecting his play with Celestino, lessons with Phichit, Ice Castle. He would say he had no time to breathe if his rags didn’t seem like fresh air anymore. But so they stayed, a break for Yuuri when the stresses of everything else wore down on him.

Celestino was still ignorant to his gigs at the club, Yuuri passing off his full schedule over the weekend as his earning extra money to send back home. At least it wasn’t a lie per say; Hasestu was where his excess income was sent.

With almost all of his time claimed and time having afforded him some distance, the rejection from earlier that year no longer stung so much. There was still a dull sadness, some persistent embarrassment, that came back every time he thought about it. But it no longer hounded him as it once did.

By winter’s arrival, his performances at Ice Castle felt natural, as if they had always been and his weeks-long break was just a figment of his imagination. His old rags continued to hit it big with the crowd: their dances were no less enthusiastic than the day he began. Even without new content he was still a club favorite and had earned the reputation of being a “classic” in the fledgling genre. All of the club’s regulars knew him and would leave him tips, going so far as to advertise Yuuri to others and getting the club more business on the nights he played.

Yuuri even received a few offers to play at other clubs. He was not adverse to the idea but his schedule made it hard. In the end he could only accept a couple of offers while suggesting that he accept the rest during school breaks.

The clubs were usually obliging, knowing well how successful Yuuri’s presence could make them.

His works remained unpublished, though he hadn’t made any moves to make them so. His rags felt personal, belonging to him solely. He still relied heavily on them to ease his days; when he was no longer dependent on them, _then_ he would let others have them. And for now, wasn’t this just as good? To have the composer himself playing them constantly? It had to be enough for now.

Although he had once drawn motivation from the club, Yuuri began keeping his head down during performances again. They were part of the reason why he had had a break from Ice Castle; the dance no longer felt like his. Their good times no longer seemed to have been his, a result of his music.

He felt like a cheat now, dazzling them with fast-paced songs that were actually lacking. Imperfect things he sold under the guise of perfection.

Yuuri couldn’t stand such thoughts when he was playing, so he never acknowledged them onstage. Their existence was hypothetical, a reality to be observed only after the next composer had stepped up. Nor could he focus on it for the rest of the time. He barely had enough energy to focus on himself.

Phichit accompanied him back to Ice Castle at times, cheering him on as each song died away. It was nice to have such support there for him. He didn’t feel as if he could believe it anymore, but Phichit’s presence was a reminder that his rags were actually good and his performances electrifying. Perhaps it was enough for Yuuri to only know that on the surface.

He had invited another person to his performances before: Sara Crispino, a harpist. She was only a year younger than Yuuri and studied with him and Phichit under Celestino. It was how they met her and her brother Michele, who had sat next to her the entire evening. Both had played the harp since they were children and had even been asked to perform in Detroit’s most prestigious concert hall before, a feat accomplished by their earned talent and Celestino’s connections. While Michele remained distant, Sara had seemed nice and became easy friends with Yuuri and Phichit. It was because of her kindness and honest interest that Yuuri had invited her.

There was one weird conversation with her, though.

Briefly after meeting Yuuri, Sara had asked with surprise, “Your name is really Yuuri? And you’re a pianist?”

“Yes?” He had paused, shifting uncomfortably. “Why?”

“It’s nothing, it’s just… Some guy was looking for you a while ago, when I was performing at a concert. He was asking everyone there, though I don’t think anyone there knew you.”

“Really? Why would anyone be looking for me?”

“What’d he look like?” Phichit interjected, draped over Yuuri’s shoulder.

“White hair, kinda tall. That’s all I remember. She shrugged.

A smile was already forming on Phichit’s lips. “How long ago was this?”

“Not long ago. Back during the spring? Sorry, I don’t remember anything else.”

Sara had let the subject drop then, not knowing what else to say. There was no name or other useful details for her to remember. But Phichit was just fine with jumping to assumptions, to giving a brief cheer and shake Yuuri’s shoulders, saying how that had to be Nikiforov.

Yuuri quickly swept this under the rug, having just stood there silently when Sara had told him this aside from a quick thank you. The mystery man could easily have been a customer at Ice Castle - the club attracted more than just Detroit’s youth at times - so what could this prove? He dismissed Phichit’s theory automatically.

As it turned out, Sara was an instant fan of ragtime, in love with its high-spirited nature and the dances it had spawned. She started attending the club when she could, Michele necessarily escorting her every time. Yuuri and Sara had mentioned her entering the ragtime world in passing a few times, though she was deterred by a hectic schedule and ragtime’s unfriendliness toward the harp.

Neither attended Ice Castle during one evening in mid-December, leaving Yuuri to play alone though he never minded.

He did not raise his head during his performance as was his reclaimed custom. If he had he might have noticed a much older man in a stiff suit and fumbled from nerves. The man had watched Yuuri all evening, occupying a table completely to himself in the front row, and looked rather uncomfortable. Out of place.

After Yuuri had stepped off the stage he was stopped quickly.

“You are Katsuki Yuuri?” the man started, a hand on Yuuri’s elbow.

Yuuri blinked, the delayed nervousness finding him now. He was not expecting anyone and the man didn’t fit the usual air of other club owners. “Yes?”

“Good,” the man sighed. His voice was heavily laced with an accent. “You’re a hard man to find.”

“Oh, um, well I’m here every Friday and Saturday evening if that helps.”

He couldn’t seem to say the most pressing word in his mind: _why_.

The man laughed wanly, wringing his hands. “Yes, I know that _now_. But it is hard when I was only told what city you live in. But enough of that. I’m a representative of the International Skating Union. We hold a banquet every year after the World Championships, in late February, and would like you to perform at it. We will provide all of the necessary information and payment, of course.”

“I, um, okay.”

_Why did he just say that?_

“Great! I have a contract written out with everything you need to know here.”

The man rattled on about all the details for a half hour, got Yuuri’s signature, then left. It was miraculous that Yuuri had been given a copy of the contract; his mind might have forced him to forget the whole evening otherwise.

Yuuri had handled the entire meeting in a daze and the rest of the night could only be described as a blur. There was a clear list of reasons on why his mind chose to stop functioning right then:

  1. He had been asked to perform at an international ice skating competition’s banquet. The _most important_ competition, at that.
  2. He had no idea why he, Katsuki Yuuri, specifically, had been asked.
  3. He had said _yes_ anyway.
  4. He, _Katsuki Yuuri_ , would be attending and performing at a banquet that _Viktor Nikiforov_ would be at.



It was a lot to process. For the second time that year, he had been overwhelmed by promised close proximity with his idol and muse.

 _It was a lot to process_.

When he returned to his and Phichit’s apartment, Yuuri’s first thought was to simply leave the contract next to Nikiforov’s signature. Lock it away as some treasured souvenir.

Because this was a banquet for _ice skaters_ , and Viktor Nikiforov was irreversibly tied into that world. He was at the forefront of the sport, a guaranteed presence at the banquet. And considering he would no doubt win gold again this year, Yuuri might as well have been asked to play for Nikiforov himself. Rest of the skaters be damned when all eyes would be on Russia’s legend. When everything was for him.

The contract was a ticket into this world, as precious as a ticket for one of his ballets.

But that was absurd.

Although this was the best job offer he could imagine at this point, to idealize it this much would only gnaw at his nerves, fray any confidence he had left. There had to be a way for him to jumpstart his mind and downplay the whole affair before he had the chance to overthink and ruin it.

Which is why what he actually did with the contract was probably a bad idea.

Finding Phichit in his room, hamsters scattered across the bed, Yuuri dropped the contract in Phichit’s lap before mindfully collapsing onto the comforter. Phichit squinted at him momentarily before skimming the contract, past the Swedish translation and onto the blunt part where it detailed what and where and when Yuuri would be performing.

“Wait-” Phichit had begun, looking up with confusion before rereading the page more intensely. “Did you apply for this? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Because I didn’t. I wish someone had told _me_. This man came by Ice Castle and just said that the ISU wanted to hire me and that… was that. I didn’t even know they hired musicians for that.”

“But he didn’t tell you how they even heard of you or…?”

He shook his head then paused. “He told me how I was hard to find, though. Something about only being given the name of my city? I don’t know. He spent most of his time talking about the contract.”

Yuuri briefly described the rest of the encounter, though there wasn’t much news left.

“Yeah, that answers a lot of questions.” Phichit’s response was elaborated on by an eyeroll.

“Maybe all those rumors the Ice Castle regulars spread about me finally reached the other side of the world. Kinda surprised that its not just some Swedish club, but this works, too.” Yuuri shot a smile at Phichit, trying to carry on the previous snide remark. Jokes between them about this matter had become frequent since other club owners had first come scouting him out.

“Yeah, but…” Phichit laid back next to Yuuri, tone shifting to serious, and held the contract up so both could see. He tapped on one section then continued, “They say you have to play classical music. I mean, yeah they said you might deviate a bit later on, but they specifically said you need a working knowledge in classical music. Think about it. Why would they hire you simply because you’re famous for ragtime in one city? Not that you’re not the rising star of ragtime, but it seems like they’re avoiding that genre. It gives no indication of your being able to play classical music.”

Yuuri shrugged, not being able to argue. “Maybe it was Celestino?”

“Definitely not. Didn’t you say he’s been more focused on your ballet than you getting gigs? Also, Celestino doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who knows what figure skating is. He only ever talks about music and soccer. Besides, didn’t you say Americans aren’t that involved in the World Championships? What would Celestino’s connection be? You wanna hear my theory?”

A nod, resigned to Phichit’s analysis.

“I bet Viktor and that Yakov guy suggested you.”

Yuuri scoffed. “Yeah, okay. We’ll just ignore how ridiculous that sounds.”

“But think about it, Yuuri!” Phichit sat up then looked back down at Yuuri. “The man said he only knew your name and current city, right? Nothing about Celestino or Ice Castle? So it was hard for him to find you. And that he seemed uncomfortable; he didn’t know to expect ragtime from you! Plus, Viktor and Yakov are Europeans and have those connections. Celestino doesn’t!”

“Anything else?”

“It just fits is what I’m saying. Viktor and Yakov told him the only two details about you that they knew and he tracked you down from there.”

“That’s ridiculous, Phichit. They’ve probably already forgotten about me.”

“You’re right, Yuuri. It was totally not from them _pitying_ you or anything.” Phichit’s tone was teasing but deliberate, not insulting of Yuuri but trying to convince him with his own words.

“Nope, not listening. Your theory is wrong.” Yuuri buried his face in his arms.

“Fine, fine. We’ll see,” Phichit waved it off. “So what are you gonna tell Celestino? Your signature is on the last page so I’m guessing you agreed.”

 _Then_ Yuuri sat up.

“Right… What if Celestino would rather have me stay here? I wonder if I can even back out of this.”

A vocal part of Yuuri hoped that Celestino _would_ disapprove. To be his one excuse on why he couldn’t attend the banquet. He couldn’t justify it objectively, but the wish persisted up until Celestino gave his answer to Yuuri’s contracted performance.

Celestino approved Yuuri’s contract.

Heartily.

“It’s a great idea, Yuuri!” Celestino had declared with a rough pat on Yuuri’s back. “An important gig like that is just the thing to bolster your career. And hey, maybe you can pass on some of your new connections to me.”

“They’re all European, though. Shouldn’t I be aiming for a reputation here?” His voice was higher than normal; this was the only viable negative he could find in the offer. After this, there was no escape.

“So it just means you’re known on two continents. That’s not a _bad_ thing. You might have to get used to traveling someday but I’m sure you’ll get used to it. You’ll do great, Yuuri, they’ll love you.”

Word of Yuuri’s international job didn’t take long to spread among Celestino’s students, ignited by the teacher himself and Phichit. Further sparked by Sara once she had gotten confirmation from Yuuri. In the few months before he left for the banquet he received a number of compliments and good wishes from other students, both stranger and known to him such as Guang Hong Ji.

Celestino helped him plan his performance for the banquet, sorting through modern but tasteful classical songs to fill his time slot. The banquet had only hired two pianists, Yuuri being scheduled to open the evening, so there was a lot of time to fill. Celestino was an invaluable resource in this. He was more familiar with what was popular in Europe at the moment and was able to pull the best songs together. Most of them were unfamiliar to Yuuri, prompting extra practice for him, though Celestino did sneak one of his own works into the set; he _was_ famous internationally after all, and considering all of his help Yuuri did not mind.

January came too fast.

Yuuri packed early and neatly. At Celestino’s insistence, he packed some of his original compositions - including “Sunflower”, after much internal debate - just in case the banquet led to any other offers.

A few days before January's conclusion, he dressed nicely for his journey, hugged Phichit goodbye at the train station, then spent the next several days alternating between sleep and swallowing his nerves.

 

* * *

 

 

_3 February 1905_

Yuuri did not speak a bit of Swedish; he was doing good just to know English. Though he was grateful for the posted signs and instructions received in English, he figured he would not be doing much exploring in Stockholm as Phichit had suggested.

Not having been paid yet, Yuuri had funded his stay from his own meek pocket, comforted only by the fact that he would be reimbursed. But for now, this meant his staying in a cheaper hotel not exactly close to the one where the ice skaters were alleged to be staying.

The very one where the banquet would be held for that matter.

It would be a long few days.

The lucky thing about the third of February was that the journey across the Atlantic had left him severely weary so he spent that night fast asleep instead of preoccupied with boredom. He was even able to drag his weariness through much of the fourth, though he couldn’t ignore his hunger as the afternoon progressed.

Venturing out of the hotel, Yuuri tracked down the closest restaurant with the promise of English-speakers. This was followed by his finding the ice rink and where the banquet would be held. He had been provided with directions but it wasn’t a bad idea to test them out beforehand, make sure he would be prompt.

Complimentary with his being a musician for the ISU that year, Yuuri was given free entrance to the ice skating competitions.

It was a nice gesture and Yuuri appreciated it, but it was a curse too, wasn’t it?

If anything it unraveled his nerves even further.

The thought occurred to him several times that he could have been there as Viktor Nikiforov’s composer. And several times he forced it down, smothered the lost chance with the dim encouragement that he was here to play for Nikiforov anyway.

His set wasn’t his original work. He had no reason to be proud of it. But he was still here to play for Nikiforov.

_That counted for something, right?_

He wouldn’t be inspiring anything in Nikiforov, except maybe a stiff dance or two. He wouldn’t be Nikiforov’s supporter for this.

But he was part of the reward for his victory.

_That counted for something, right?_

The same part of him that had wished Celestino would disapprove of this performance, bit at him once more. A strong and wrenching desire to skip the competitions completely and just play at the banquet.

And yet.

There was a greater part of him that was better than that.

He had been recommended and found after someone had gone to the trouble to find him, and so he would perform. Celestino had organized a spectacular set for him, and so he would follow it and play his best. The ISU had been gracious enough to give him free access to the competitions, and so he would not waste it.

Yuuri had gotten this far, originally from his own dazed stupidity and recently from the excited encouragements of others. He had to at least step up and try to get through this, brush past the anxiety and renewed sorrow over Yakov’s harsh review. And if he failed, it would be solely on him; at least he could say he tried.

Filing into the ice rink the next day was like a dream, his mind pushing him to it when it realized he could not cope with two excitements at once.

It was easier to blank out and just _watch_ on the two competition days.

Blank out the disappointment that still haunted him, only rising with a vengeance after months of being faded. How he could never be good enough to play anything for Nikiforov but the highly-restricted banquet afterward. Never enough.

Blank out the growing excitement in anticipation of seeing Nikiforov again. At the World Championships in figure skating, no less! It was different than at his ballets, the rehearsed movements that never belonged to him even though he worked over them so perfectly. The newspapers had announced it when he shifted to choreographing his own routines. Letters to Minako had confirmed it, described this feat when the papers had only glanced over it: Nikiforov’s routines fit him like a glove. It was all _his_ movements, _his_ strengths, _his_ emotions, _him_. They weren’t forced on him like in ballet. No, his routines were undeniably his.

And it was thrilling. Everyone said so.

It didn’t stop there, either. This competitiveness was new to Yuuri. How could he cheer on Nikiforov without applauding the rest of his troupe? Hope for the best solely for Nikiforov but not even glance at Mila Babicheva when he lifted her? But this was different; here Nikiforov would be alone. Share and present himself, and only himself. Only depend on and fight for himself. And Yuuri could wish the best for Nikiforov alone, without even learning the other skaters’ names. Listen to the numbers be announced, but only hear those awarded to Nikiforov.

And wasn’t it exciting, to cheer on someone’s victory? It was never there in ballets once they were onstage; the troupe had to work together or fail together. Nor had he met competitiveness in music so far, Yuuri having avoided it at all costs. But he faced it now, and all the singular investment and raucous applause and hope that went with it.

He faced it now, filled with a liveliness that only graced him onstage.

His mind tried to keep his emotions dulled, an acquired coping mechanism, but it faltered. Failed completely. The second excitement that consumed him broke through during the men’s singles.

Viktor Nikiforov’s name was called.

At the opposite side of the rink from Yuuri, Nikiforov’s tall figure stepped forward and away from Yakov.

His blades hit and sliced along the ice.

Yuuri leaned forward in his seat, getting a better look as Viktor Nikiforov found the center of the ice and assumed his starting position. He was confident under the spotlight, his arms held close to him, to his throat, and his chest thrown forward and an easy smile on his lips. His white hair was ruffled as much as it could be for its length, though still unfairly attractive. Navy cloth clung to him, heavily embroidered with silver as a corset down his chest and streaming along his arms. In stark contrast was his golden blades, scattering the light when he moved.

He held this position for a breathless moment, open hands and calves crossed. He was practically beckoning the cheers that met him from the audience and the light reserved for him alone. Both were met by his calm self-assuredness, his smile that rewarded spectators for their support.

And then [the music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7C3f4quYwM) began.

And he was off.

It was a beautiful song, one that Yuuri was intimately familiar with.

Which occurred to him immediately, confusion sweeping over him.

Nikiforov had been hiring composers to write original pieces for his routines since he first started choreographing them, utilizing both forms to create one story. There had not been one year since then when rumor did not spread that Nikiforov and Yakov were searching for composers again.

The choreography was still produced by Nikiforov, a fact Yuuri knew from the papers and announcements that introduced the routine. His costume was specifically designed for this moment.

It seemed odd that he would fall back on an already written piece after so many years.

But maybe it just fit Nikiforov’s story.

Maybe no one could live up to the challenge of writing Nikiforov’s music this year, failed to meet his expectations, which Yuuri could not be surprised by.

He surely had his reasons; it was nothing for Yuuri to dwell on.

Rising notes filled the rink, cast off by a concert pianist positioned near the ice. They played through the song perfectly, each movement audibly flawless. Even if it wasn’t original, the legendary skater would never settle for less.

Yuuri could hear it well enough, felt his usual adoration for the song, half-remembered notes ghosting across his fingers.

Nikiforov spun away from the center of the ice, movements slow and deliberate. Elegant footwork and dramatic hand gestures matched Franz Liszt’s work perfectly in time. His expression shifted from the confident smile he had worn seconds before to a more gentle one, agape and a breathless energy. The choreography was different from ballet, a language on its own that Yuuri could not understand, but there was a purpose behind each spin, each raise of his hand. It was a language Yuuri desperately wished to speak, though he could gleam the meaning well enough even without the accompany music tipping him off: unconditional love.

The movements quickened with the music, his three jumps set during the middle and climax of the song. Each jump could well have stopped Yuuri’s heart; they were exhilarating moves with an intensity unlike the ones he was familiar with. Graceful, as Nikiforov always was, they gathered a height and strenuous landing that amazed Yuuri.

_So this was figure skating. The newspapers and letters could never have prepared him for it._

Nikiforov pulled away from the jumps with one more spin, then let his dance lose momentum, preparing for the third portion of the song. Whatever hardened look Nikiforov might have worn during his jumps dulled once more, regaining a tranquility that steadied the clambering transitions of the song. No more need for the momentum, he returned to the elaborate gestures from before, twirls that brought him back to the center of the ice and gestures as if reaching out for a partner.

As the last couple of seconds of the song died away he came to his final position, calves crossed once more though now his hands were stretched outwards. He still had the softer smile that went with the routine, not dropping it for his former confident smirk until after he was off of the ice. From where he sat Yuuri could see Nikiforov’s strained breathing and slight instability in his final posture. But he held it for a long moment, until every trace of the song had faded, and lingered on the ice even after that to wave to the audience.

The crowd itself was deafening, applause and cheers reaching a far greater energy than what Nikiforov had during his routine. A few bouquets and other small gifts rained onto the ice, which he collected on his way back to the low wall’s door.

Yakov met him right where he had left Nikiforov and the two waited for the scores to be called together.

Yuuri shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the highs of the routine wearing off and the earlier blankness returning to him. He was torn between keeping his eyes on Nikiforov, assured by the fact that he wouldn’t be caught, and averting his gaze. It was a guilty pleasure, looking back to the ice and its skater. And he knew better, knew it was best to ignore Nikforov and Yakov for now after all that had been said, but it was difficult.

Impossible.

Long-term adoration kept Yuuri curious of Nikiforov. Kept him weak to newspaper articles on him and watching his routine and trying to see what reaction he would have to winning yet again.

The papers always painted him as so charismatic, a true team player, but this was a competition. Yuuri couldn’t help but wonder whether Nikiforov would feel pride at winning again or pass it off as a common occurrence or gloat it over his competitors.

_Though, Yuuri doubted that last guess. Hoped against it._

And he wondered whether Nikiforov did anything special to celebrate his victories. Or whether the banquet was enough. And whether he enjoyed the banquets at all or found them boring.

And whether his set would be good enough for Nikiforov the following night.

Too many questions could not be quelled, his cursing the fact that they occurred to him at all. What business was it of his how Nikiforov would react when he eventually stood on the top podium? Yet he wondered.

And so his eyes remained on Nikiforov, flitting occasionally to the ice and the pianist and the announcer waiting for the scores.

When the scores were announced, more cheers broke out among the audience. Yuuri had read enough newspapers over the years to know the score he received was good, incredible, though to be expected of Viktor Nikiforov.

Yuuri applauded with the rest of the crowd as Nikiforov ascended to the top of the podium, gold medal hung from his neck and bright smile on his lips.

Nikiforov’s routine more than deserved the victory, its elegance and skill outranking the others easily. It was entirely beautiful, an emotional performance, and he pulled it off as well as he pulled off everything else.

He might not have understood everything behind figure skating but Yuuri did grasp at one overall theme of the dance.

It was choreographed to be an incomplete duet.

 

* * *

 

 

Yakov had never cared to keep secrets like surprises from Viktor. When he arranged something for Viktor - Christophe coming to visit or a planned event for his name day - Yakov told him about it immediately and curtly, the idea of surprising others never occurring to him. The only patience Yakov exercised in this regard was that he never told Viktor about his efforts until they were certain to come to fruition.

It was a while before he told Viktor, waiting until nearly the last moment to propose his idea and the Swedish official having needed over a month to track Yuuri down.

In the meantime, Viktor had next season to worry about and ballets to appear in. He had Christophe to entertain when they were together and his troupe to motivate night after night. He had enough in his life to keep him busy, and if ever there was a silent moment he could always trust to fall back on Makkachin. He had just enough to occupy his thoughts during the day.

It was a constant high, either rehearsing with his troupe or choreographing his next routine. Only the nights left him alone with everything else, every troubled thought and relied upon memory of Yuuri - when he had the energy left to think.

The ballets were easy compared to figure skating, his not having to contribute his own creativity to the basic choreography. Understand the character, see every side of the story, recreate it in his movements. It was second nature to him, sometimes even more natural than breathing or sleeping.

The ice was his true canvas, where he could paint what he wanted and not be fettered down by the creativity of another. The atmosphere was always his, the movements and costume and music. It was his own show, a race to string together every year and always making him frustrated and thrilled. Nikiforov didn’t often face hardship in what he attempted, but figure skating was a challenge. It wasn’t analysis of another person’s character; it was analysis of himself and the procedure of changing himself to fit what _he_ imagined, what he wanted.

It was breathtaking, all-consuming, ecstasy, to do year after year.

Even this year, when he had been thrown off from his usual self-assured calm, the joy of it found him. The lively spins and jumps and gestures were all his, enough to garnish high scores and medals and applause every time he stepped onto the ice. It was inspiring, but the creation process was why he returned.

Viktor had insisted on starting the search for a composer early, dragging Yakov to various auditions before he even had a theme in mind. There was the same underlying desperation that had characterized his race through Detroit after hearing Yuuri perform. After that he was simply the standard, the epitome of a creativity and skill that he found it impossible to find in any other musician. No one could match Yuuri’s composition, could string such life through the music as he did. He gave them a blank slate, freedom to play their very best, and still found them too flat, unable to surpass his impossibly high expectations.

Each one was turned down invariably, making Yakov more frustrated as the deadlines approached.

It wasn’t until summer when Yakov finally couldn’t provide leniency anymore. They would be working on a tight schedule if Viktor had waited any longer, though that didn’t seem to occur to him.

“Look, Vitya, this is your last chance.”

“I haven’t decided yet. There isn’t anyone else we can try?”

“We’ve gone through everyone. We even went back to some of your previous composers.” Yakov had pinched the bridge of his nose, standing over Viktor as he lounged on his couch. “You have to decide.”

“I already did.” It was a pout, Viktor not meeting his eyes in favor of being hostile toward Yakov.

“Do you want to win? The judges are more sensible than that. If you don’t, I’ll hire the best among them so we can actually start preparing.”

“Fine. But I still choose the piece.”

It was a compromise. One he wasn’t happy with.

Yakov had gone ahead with hiring one concert pianist as he had declared, one of the most skilled in the art and in possession of an impressive international reputation.

Viktor couldn’t care less now.

He looked through the pianist’s portfolio though it proved to be a wasted effort: if he could recognize any of the titles listed, he doubted any of them had ever gotten his attention. The list was quickly discarded as he resorted to choosing an old, familiar work.

It was the only song he knew of that could come close to gaining his approval.

It was the only song that explained what he had felt since March, even if its composer had not intended such a complete significance. It was a widely varying piece, from raucous to comparatively calm within seconds, though generally fast-paced. Like Yuuri’s composition. It captured the emotion that he had rarely been graced with before until he heard Yuuri’s song, found how deeply it rang within him. How panicked the whole affair was, Viktor seemingly always on the chase now for a shadow that disappeared with dusk. It was all of his high-strung devotion to someone he barely knew but felt like he had known for so long.

It was the closest to perfection he could find from a different composer.

And so the pianist agreed, and he choreographed a routine to that song, and his designer made him a somber costume at his request.

It was a winning routine; it disappointed him more than any of his others.

At his own insistence, Yakov cleared much of his schedule over the autumn so that Viktor could focus solely on the routine, perfecting it. How could he add another ballet to his repertoire when he was having such a difficult time in his preferred art? It had to be beat into something decent, something he would be proud to skate.

By the end of December, it was as close as it would get to satisfaction.

The end of December was also when Yakov spent a few extra moments than he had to with Viktor in order to tell him the recently confirmed news: Yuuri would be performing at the banquet following the World Championships.

Viktor could swear his heart stopped.

For all of his forgetfulness and ignored self-awareness, Viktor couldn’t deny that he had been so insufferable for Yakov in those preceding months. He had been love-struck before.

But this?

This was obsession.

Pining.

Desperation.

He had made Yakov aware enough to that fact, though he justified himself every time by saying that he loved the music. Loved whatever genre it originated from despite not knowing its name. At the end of every rant on the song was his longing to hear it again, to hear more songs like it.

 _It just struck a chord with him. He just liked the rhythm. It was pretty_.

Yakov had only huffed every time, tired of hearing Yuuri’s name again and again whenever the topic of music was brought up. He had started simply walking away after a while, the song having been brought up continuously when they were auditioning composers.

“I want to skate to Yuuri’s composition.” Always eloquently and politely stated, a silent pleading for Yakov to spare him more details, even if he really did not know anything else. He repeated it constantly, insatiably.

Yakov had never responded.

But now he pulled Viktor aside, briefly congratulating him on completing his routine, making it irreproachable, before telling him this news. It was quick, a brief statement that took Viktor a few seconds to process, then another moment to jumpstart his heart again. He pulled Yakov into a tight hug before running off to find Mila, Georgi, anyone who would listen to him as he celebrated Yuuri being found.

He even wrote Christophe that night about it. Christophe had always listened to Viktor gush about his crushes, the interspersed ones he had in Moscow and other cities, though they never stayed in his life for long. They never worked, between his careers and his being so closed off beyond that. He was used to the short stints of romance, to throwing them off as quickly as he fell for them, and Christophe listened and offered advice every time.

 _But this is different_.

The thought pervaded the letter, constantly reaffirming to Christophe just how head-over-heels he was for Yuuri.

Based off of his composition and the all of three seconds he spent with him.

It was absurd, a logical part of him knew that well, but he couldn’t care. Not when the memory of Yuuri and news of his coming to Stockholm was enough to chase away the dull loneliness, the unbearably silent nights tucked away in his apartment.

So Christophe would know every detail. Would be told the story of his hearing Yuuri play once again and get buried under his excitement. And then his sorrows that the World Championships and its banquet was still two months away. Then closing on how this made all of the previous months bearable, in just as few words.

Time passed too slowly for him after that, the good news almost a curse though he could never regret it. What better motivation to trump the European Figure Skating Championships than such news? The reminder that in a month he would get to properly meet the black-haired composer?

He took home gold in the European competition, to the pride of Yakov and his own internal indifference. The newspapers all bragged about his prowess, how they all knew that he would reign victorious during this competition even after his less than stellar performance the previous year. The excitement of this first competition followed him, his being congratulated in St. Petersburg and receiving best wishes from his troupe for the next competition.

It clung to him until February, when he left for Stockholm. That departure was all he had cared about for the last few months, the victories a nice thing to have on the side. And once he had reached Stockholm, was checked into his hotel room, then he let himself look forward to the banquet specifically.

Yakov called it a _distraction_ , Viktor’s lasting optimism for something that would happen _after_ the routine. But Viktor didn’t listen to Yakov closely anyway.

When they had settled into their room, Viktor asked whether Yuuri would be staying in the same hotel. He would be civil, wait until the banquet to find him, but in case Yuuri was staying in close proximity to him a warning would be appreciated. At least so that he wouldn’t embarrass himself.

But Yakov was not privy to that information and no one in the hotel recognized the composer’s name.

Well, patience was a virtue Viktor possessed.

After learning this he tried to get some part of him to focus, to rehearse his routine and make sure he was completely prepared to step up to claim gold again.

Perhaps he would even prove his title in figure skating again with Yuuri there. He did know that the musicians for the banquet were invited to watch the competitions, having heard of that a few years previously. And if he was a fan of Viktor’s as Phichit had claimed, then surely he would be present? Watch his skating just as he had watched his ballet?

It was his hope.

He still couldn’t reconcile himself with his routine, still found some disappointment in it even when it earned him one of his best scores and some of his most raving reviews yet. Had landed him on top of the podium.

_And surely that counted for something, right?_

There had to be some ease, some happiness at taking gold with a routine he could not wholeheartedly approve. Even though the victories faded in intensity after so many years, there was still pride and joy at winning the competitions. He adored figure skating; why should he not find solace in how he excelled at it?

Why should he not have smiled in earnest as the crowd cheered?

He knew in some vague sense of what he felt lacking in the performance, not in technicalities but some personal dislike. It went beyond the song, because the song was what it grew from, forming its dissatisfying core. The details to it simply seemed too subtle for the truth he was trying to convey. He was boisterous, blunt, and this choreography was more shrouded than the accompanying song.

And perhaps that was for the best; he knew this superficially. Viktor was the one always tearing himself down and reinventing himself for his various ballet roles; perhaps that tradition had followed him into the skating world a bit too far. Perhaps he simply didn’t know how else to express himself. He had carried out such drastic changes in ballet before, though the ice was always where he exuded confidence. And with this year’s unexpected shift in theme the old habit of reinventing himself completely must have followed.

It was a subtle performance. He knew superficially what it meant for him, though there was something more that he began to understand sometimes while he was working through the movements. A connecting whole to the piece that he felt in those rare glimpses, though he never reached a conclusion on _what_ that whole was. So it remained largely disjointed for him.

In all of the little movements, in his claiming it to have one theme instead of the other, he failed to notice that he had performed a duet mourning the absence of its partner.

But then his score was announced, he was swept to the podium, ushered back to his hotel with the medal around his neck and flowers in his arms, and the thought process slipped from his mind after that.

He had built that life; one without room to breathe.

The banquet wasn’t until the following evening, after the remaining competitions, giving him time to recuperate after his routine and prepare for the potentially boring, potentially amazing event. He didn’t mind them normally, his appreciating the attention and support it brought him. But only his composer from Detroit could make the banquet interesting.

Part of him still couldn’t believe that Yakov had found Yuuri for him, that he wasn’t just some fairytale character his mind had created.

Viktor didn’t mention this doubt to anyone, holding some superstitious fear that it would make the possibility too real.

Christophe had attended the competition and would be at the banquet as well. Viktor had invited him every year since he first started skating, a favor he was able to get through Yakov so that he knew at least _someone_ during those evenings. It wasn’t that he disliked the other skaters but, as he started at a comparatively young age and sportsmanship was not a great influence in the figure skating world yet, there was often little base for connection. And so Christophe had been invited and attended when he could, the closest he had to a friend and able to lighten the evenings where Viktor couldn’t.

Christophe also provided some entertainment in the interval between his competition and the banquet. It was one thing when he could go sightseeing, relying on his English and French, but he knew little Swedish. It was a great motivator for not straying too far from the hotel, Christophe and Viktor finding some other ways to pass the time after his skating season had come to a successful close.

Both donned their best suits the following evening, Viktor practically pushing Yakov and Christophe out the door and to the hall downstairs.

A few other skaters filed in along with them, many of the officials already present. It was a rather bare gathering, as most were. Yakov tugged him toward one group of businessmen immediately, throwing him a pointed look. If he just acted civil now and talked to his supporters the evening would go quicker and he could do what he wished later.

It was a fair deal.

In the corner of the room was a piano. It wasn’t nearly as rich as the one at his hotel in Detroit, but it seemed to be of some use as its music softly filled the room. If Viktor craned his neck right, he could make out the black-haired figure plucking at the keys, though Yakov’s grip on his elbow often reclaimed his attention.

 _Just a little longer_.

The gold medalist was always the busiest at these events, attracting the most attention as more people wanted to invest in Viktor’s obvious talent. The evening had worn on and Christophe had eventually left his side before Viktor found a moment to himself.

Yuuri still sat at the piano with only slight pauses between songs. Momentarily free of Yakov’s command, he slipped closer to the corner of the room to listen, though not close enough to interrupt Yuuri.

Under the brighter lights and with both staying there for a while Viktor got a better look at the composer. The general features hadn’t changed: neatly slicked back hair and a suit with coattails and a blue flower tucked into the front pocket. He kept his head bowed to the keyboard, fingers skipping along the keys adeptly, just as before.

But he noticed more now.

He got to see Yuuri’s strong jawline and the lingering fat on his cheeks when his mouth was closed. The light pink lips that seemed a bit chapped when Viktor looked closely. Thin eyebrows offset by thick eyelashes, covering his reflective caramel eyes. The way his suit was tailored to him perfectly, accentuating his height and covering the weight he had gained since moving to Detroit, having let his ballet lessons fall to the wayside as a sacrifice though he still practiced on his own. The way he swayed slightly as he made his away along the keyboard, as if throwing himself into every note. The general softness and energy that were both presented in his expression and subtle movements.

He could easily be more beautiful than the music he played, if music didn’t seem to be a defining part of him, form his very bones and drip into his movements.

Christophe hovered next to him for a moment, glancing at Yuuri.

“This is the one you sent me an essay on?”

Viktor nodded, drawing his gaze away from Yuuri reluctantly.

“I can see why. He’s lovely. You’re going to talk to him after he’s done?”

A stunned pause.

Viktor didn’t exactly have a plan.

He had always relied on spontaneity and a quick wit before, and he couldn’t imagine changing that method now. He had gotten this far; surely the rest would follow.

And yet.

Viktor didn’t even know what he would say. Admittedly, before this evening he probably wouldn’t have been able to identify Yuuri in a crowd. At least not without that telling blue flower. A black suit with coattails and black hair were not exactly uncommon, even together, but that was all Viktor had been able to catch in Detroit as Yuuri had left too quickly. He hadn’t even known Yuuri’s eye color. Viktor had been heavily dependent on his playing first at the banquet to be able to tell him from the rest until now.

Now, at least, he had Yuuri’s face fully memorized.

But as for how he was going to approach Yuuri? What he would say?

Those details were now more blaringly absent than ever.

In all his rants and letters to Christophe, Viktor had only ever had a basic idea: formally meet Yuuri at the banquet.

But how?

It wasn’t charm that he was lacking; no, Viktor Nikiforov knew how to flirt. He knew what to say to strike up a conversation.

It was how he was going to introduce himself to the composer Yakov had rejected so coldly, against Viktor’s wishes. Yuuri had deserved that position, from the moment the song began, and Viktor had been regretting Yakov’s words for him ever since. And even if he _was_ a fan of Viktor’s, why should it be assumed he still _is_? After all Yakov had said to play up Viktor’s importance, Yuuri was in the right if he didn’t want to talk to Viktor. Why should he want Viktor’s compliments now, after such insults only months previously?

It was also how he was going to approach the composer of one of the greatest songs he had ever heard. The song his mind kept circling back to as the one he wanted to skate to more than anything else. The composer that seemed to understand Viktor so well, by chance, just from his own music.

He was reduced to speechlessness, throwing glances at Yuuri from a distance and politely clapping after he had finished a particularly complex piece.

“Of course I’ll go talk to him.”

But he remained stiff where he stood, shoulders tensing as his mind drew a blank on what to say.

“Right…”

Christophe would have said more if Viktor hadn’t been called away again by an impatient Yakov. Another official stood beside Yakov, another long conversation awaiting him.

While he was talking with the official, Yuuri finished his final song and took a bow for anyone who had cared to watch. Viktor watched him in his peripheral vision and hoped that Yuuri wasn’t planning to leave right then and there. The official who had scheduled his performance approached Yuuri and shook his hand, thanked him, but what could he possibly have left to do here after that? He knew no one present, the current crowd probably vastly different than the company he usually kept.

Viktor was almost certain that he would leave, despite the obvious invitation the official had extended for Yuuri to stay.

Until…

The interaction was brief, less than a minute.

Before he could make toward the exit, Christophe had put a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder and led him to the table spread with appetizers and glasses of alcohol. A few words were exchanged: Christophe told him later that convincing Yuuri to stay had been easy as his teacher had encouraged him to make connections while he was there. He just needed a break to get his bearings again. That Christophe’s suggestion of alcohol wasn’t the brightest idea though he probably needed a drink anyway, to tell the truth.

And then it was over, Christophe slipping away again with Yuuri behind him holding a glass of champagne. He winked at Viktor on his returning to his side, as if to say that his job here was done.

Yuuri drained the glass quickly and set it back on the table. Adjusted his tie and straightened his sleeves. Faced the room and let his gaze over sweep the guests as if he could identify them without meeting them. A few officials took the initiative, shaking his hand, no doubt making him plenty of offers for other performances - or so Viktor liked to imagine. But eventually these dwindled away, leaving the banquet as their business there came to a close. And Yuuri was left alone, returning to the table and draining another glass.

Viktor turned his attention back to the businessman speaking to him.

Yuuri drained yet another glass.

And another.

And another.

And another.

Viktor and Yakov made a deal with the businessman, more money to support his skating and livelihood, good press on a safe bet for the man.

And another.

And another.

And another.

The next concert pianist had already stepped up to the piano, his sheet music strewn in front of him and his fingers poised expertly. He was stiffer than Yuuri but his songs were upbeat, lightening the mood for those who remained; the crowd tended to thin throughout the evening with disinterest. Only those intimately involved in the figure skating world were expected to stay, a private setting for them to end another season.

A few buoyant waltzes and the like, inviting dancing instead of the formal conversations that Yuuri’s music had inspired.

The stiff pieces Yuuri had played were so different from his original work, but he had brought emotion to the notes anyway. The songs themselves could not compare to Yuuri’s composition but the beauty was still there in his playing. There had still been beauty in his focused expression and flitting fingers.

And another.

And another.

And another.

The businessman Viktor and Yakov had been speaking with took his leave, freeing Viktor for the night to enjoy the remainder of the banquet.

Yuuri glanced around the room once more, obviously less anxious than he had been earlier, perhaps not even really noticing the people that remained.

His hand went to his tie, fidgeting with the knot until it was loosened. Then took it off entirely, shoving it into his pocket haphazardly, the top buttons to his white shirt becoming undone in the rough process. Not bothering with the glasses of champagne anymore, he grabbed a bottle and unbuttoned a few more buttons along his jacket.

And wasn’t he a sight?

A pretty one.

A bold one.

“Well, this was basically just a dancing competition, right?” His words were surprisingly lucid for a man unconsciously undressing himself. At a formal banquet. “I can dance, too, y’know. I can’t skate, but I can dance, too.”

Yuuri stumbled to the middle of the hall during his opening speech. All eyes were on him, the hall’s atmosphere shifting to uncomfortable shock, and he seemed to be vaguely aware of this. As if proving his claim, he began dancing to the current waltz vividly despite his lack of a partner. He made up for this absence himself, acting out the moves without anyone there to catch him.

Arching his back, he lifted his right foot, high with toes pointed, while his supporting leg sprung him forward, as if moving in time with another person. One hand was raised gracefully behind him, while the other poured more alcohol down his throat.

Perhaps unwisely.

But he was spectacular.

Every move was a dare, high-spirited and always positioned so that Yuuri could catch himself in the landing.

Sheer confidence and eros masked his previous sober shyness.

He was completely different, yet just as lively as Viktor had always imagined him to be. How could someone who composed such brilliant music not have a streak of that same excitement in them?

“See? I can dance!”

He jumped as the current song reached its climax, gaining an impressive height, before landing perfectly, hands framing his neck gracefully. Viktor vaguely remembered the move from a ballet he had performed before.

It was a surprise for Viktor, to say the least: Yuuri could dance. Perhaps he was a bit rusty at the more complicated moves, but there was clearly an extensive knowledge there.

“You… Someone should dance with me!” Yuuri called, turning to the rest of the hall with an air of cockiness. He beckoned challengers with his hands, a taunt. “Won’t someone compete against me? I swear I can dance too. Just give me a chance. I’ll show you dancing.”

Viktor stepped forward, enamored. “I’ll compete against y-”

“Step aside, old man!”

Viktor wasn’t familiar with the blond boy, though he recognized him well enough. Yuri Plisetsky. He was a figure skater, having learned the sport not long after Viktor himself had began, and had insisted on having Yakov as his coach despite Yakov still exclusively targeting aspiring ballet dancers. It was his fiery attitude and previous approval of actual figure skating coaches - notably Lilia Baranovskaya, an internationally famed prima ballerina turned choreographer and coach after seeing figure skating’s potential from Viktor - that eventually made Yakov agree. He only took care of the business aspect of Yuri’s career, which is how he got entrance to the banquet despite being a few years away still from being able to make his international skating debut. As Yuri had asserted, maybe it would be good for him to watch the World Championships and spread his name among the sponsors that would be present afterwards.

Yakov had reluctantly agreed.

Though now he was pinching his nose as Yuri pushed Viktor aside on his way to Yuuri.

A hand on his waist and the other poking at Yuuri, he brought Yuuri to a stand still to listen to the presented assertions:

“You think you can actually go against professionals? You probably don’t even know what you’re doing. How could you be so stupid as to challenge people better at you in dancing than you are at the piano. A child could beat you. I’ll show you.”

Yuuri had instantly perked up at that, finally having found his opponent.

By this time Yuuri’s jacket had been discarded completely, leaving only his white button down shirt and the tie that had found its way back to his neck at some point. A few of the lower buttons were undone at random.

Picking up on the beat of the waltz, Yuri began his dance with a look of hardened determination. His movements were rather stiff, obviously regretting the suit he was wearing, but he executed them well regardless. There were jumps and spins dispersed regularly often throughout his dance, high energy moves that didn’t always match the atmosphere of the music. His dance was to impress, a spirited chase for victory in prowess and technique.

But how could anyone deny that Yuuri was the winner? His dance was loose, effortless, comfortable. For all of his high jumps and stumbling spins as the music climaxed, his dance matched the music beat for beat, emotion for emotion. Expressive footwork and captivating gestures dominated his style, skilled enough that he could hold his own against Yuri’s technique-oriented moves. Yuuri was still dancing a solitary waltz, admittedly elaborated on by ballet choreography, but still a waltz, against Yuri’s raged boasting of self-control.

An easy smile and overall expression of delight was far more dazzling than the puffed one of determination.

As far as Viktor was concerned anyway.

And oh how Viktor cheered! He remained at the edge of the circle the two dancers carved out, watching Yuuri with an admiring intensity. His encouragements were by far the loudest, raised with every one of Yuuri’s impressive jumps or exhibit of emotional choreography. He couldn’t help the wide grin and happiness that reached the rest of his expression. Got his heart beating, a spreading warmth in admiration.

But the high-intensity competition with Yuri was clearly unsatisfying, even if his own skills were flawed against the youth’s fluid movements.

Yuuri turned back to the onlookers, heaving and hair ruffled, while a disgruntled Yuri slunk away. For all of his drunken confidence, the joyful smile remained.

“Is that it?” Yuuri tested again, clapping his hands together.

But before he could speak, before anyone else could approach, Viktor took his starting position. He hadn’t bothered to remove the restraint of his suit, versus Yuuri with every button on his shirt undone. A light blush graced Yuuri’s cheeks at the new contestant but it didn’t stop him from dancing spectacularly as the next song began.

Viktor knew this dance too well, one he had learned directly from ballet and indirectly within his own routines, a waltz performed solely yet longing for another. For someone to lay the path of the dance, to catch their partner every time they fell. Both of them had grown accustomed to catching themselves.

But he let Yuuri choreograph this dance.

Claiming the space behind Yuuri, Viktor watched his every move and copied it, uncertain and delayed movements that lacked Yuuri’s natural spontaneity. Clumsy replicas of Yuuri’s graceful positions.

How was he going to impress with this?

Only after a few long seconds did Viktor finally realize the rhythmn of the song and find a way to keep up with Yuuri. He kept in step with Yuuri, letting the music guide him in his dance as Yuuri did, filling in the details on his own. Where Yuuri shifted his body forward intimately, Viktor took a wide and confident step. Where Yuuri kicked his leg up, Viktor lunged forward with arms raised. Each shifted to the emotion of the song, flickering between seductive glances and youthful smiles one minute to the next. They were in step, a basic plot to the dance that they each completed themselves, two halves to a whole.

But they couldn’t stay so separate like this. Not for a dance meant to be constantly progressing.

Edging toward Yuuri, Viktor offered his own elegant bow, hair falling into his eyes. It was meant as an invitation, and Yuuri miraculously read this.

The two circled around each for a moment, Viktor shrugging off his coat during a twirl for the presentation before slipping back into it. Then Yuuri took the lead, a bit more blatantly and self-aware now, as he closed the gap between them and pulled Viktor close. One hand on Viktor’s upper arm and the other clasping his other hand, some addled mix between more traditional dances and the dances he had observed at Ice Castle.

They were close, improperly so. Viktor could distantly hear the gasps of bystanders, though he couldn’t find the will to step away, to end the warm contact between them.

Yuuri twisted them along in a rough circle, then back and forth, then shifted back to forming the widening ring. His hand crept up to Viktor’s shoulder to gain better control, dipping them both at times and swaying at rare pauses.

It would be an objectively awkward movement if Yuuri didn’t keep the beat for them so easily and intensely. Switching to grasping both of Viktor’s arms, he would jerk them back and forth, a potentially violent movement if not so dizzyingly exhilarating.

Viktor let him take control completely until he had learned the kicking footwork Yuuri was unconsciously performing, then asserted himself more.

At one high point of the song, he dared to lift Yuuri, extracting his hands from Yuuri’s grip and shoulder to clasp him tightly at the lower back. He spun them once and made sure not to look away from Yuuri the entire time. Yuuri’s head was thrown back, a smile so evident, and his legs had been lifted back automatically with Viktor’s move.

Using it as a jumping point, Yuuri led them from the more club-inspired dancing to traditional, their movements still intimate. Guiding Viktor to dip back, he cupped Viktor’s head and gripped his raised leg, urging him to sustain the position for an extra beat despite Viktor having to bear all his weight alone.

But wasn’t Yuuri’s smile intoxicatingly worth it? Lightly touching his back in return its own reward?

Slowly Yuuri seemed to realize what was wrong with their position, some thought occurring to him without Viktor being let into the secret.

He turned them around once more, the hand that had been tangled in Viktor’s hair lowering to his shoulder to guide them both before snaking down to his ribs. His grip on Viktor was tight, steadying enough to catch him if he fell. Trusting his partner, Viktor lifted his back leg, distributing his weight between himself and Yuuri as he did so.

The initiative was met enthusiastically, Yuuri tightening his grip even more and furthering the intimacy in their position.

With a lunge forward and lift of his free arm he directed Viktor to lift his own arm, parallel though not touching, a graceful gesture.

Along with synchronizing their postures, the move did have one delightful effect: Yuuri’s chest was now flush against Viktor’s back, head almost resting on his shoulder as Yuuri met him with the same soft smile as earlier. Head turned to catch Yuuri’s smile, Viktor returned his own, confident and admiring.

The song ended too early for Viktor’s taste.

The dance itself had been entirely new for Viktor, composed of risque moves and a limited space that he had never witnessed before. Despite the gleaming bits of ballet and waltz mixed into Yuuri’s steps, this was something else all on its own. A shifting dance he needed to learn, could never replicate himself even if he might come close. It seemed to be all Yuuri’s, a part of him, which Viktor had been honored enough to perform with him despite its rebellious nature. It was astonishingly akin to Yuuri’s composition, unsurprising but dazzling all the same, the dance no doubt being gleamed from the music that seemed to instinctively find its course through Yuuri’s body.

“I’m pretty sure that was a draw,” he said, stepping away from Yuuri politely after he had dropped his grip on Viktor.

Yuuri didn’t answer, however, as Christophe laid one more regret on Viktor: bringing him to the banquet.

Following Yuuri in actions, Christophe had stripped off his jacket and tie and even went so far as to discard his white shirt. His later excuse was that the formal wear restricted his flexibility, but Viktor knew him too well to believe that.

Especially considering the sensual dance he performed on his own, a testament of his skill as a precursor to dancing with Yuuri and a form of bragging to the rest of the hall.

Viktor would feel more embarrassment over Christophe if he hadn’t just performed a fairly obscene dance with Yuuri.

How could he lay blame when the previous moments had been so pleasurable?

Yuuri watched Christophe’s solo, still breathing too hard to be able to take up the challenge immediately. It halted their conversation and derived Viktor of the attention from Yuuri that he had been basking in, drenched in it.

There was some attempt on Yuuri’s part, stealing the idea from Christophe in time with the music. A trill rang from the piano and he wriggled out of his slacks, his shirt draping partially over his underwear. The song reached a disorganized climax and he tugged his tie loose once more, letting it fall against his chest. He still swayed to the music, building up his momentum.

When Christophe finished the dance he approached them, his eyes bright and chest glistening with sweat. The horrified looks he received rolled off his back.

It somehow must have inspired some thought for Yuuri because Viktor heard a sharp gasp from him. He spun around so that he was facing Viktor again and flung his arms around him, nestling his head under Viktor’s own.

If Viktor had felt speechless earlier in the evening, this was something else entirely. It was impossible to concentrate, steady his thoughts, keep his composure. Yuuri held onto him so tightly, not allowing to move, though Viktor wasn’t sure he would be able to move of his own accord even with some space to escape. He was locked in place, more from surprise in the action itself than Yuuri’s strength. He could only stand there, eyes cast down to Yuuri and jaw slack.

Yuuri pressed himself closer to Viktor. Disappointment and pleading crossed his face.

Viktor remained silent.

Because had he ever been held so desperately before? Or been the subject of such passion? Before Yuuri even spoke, Viktor recognized the begging need for his attention; had anyone ever been this sincere to him about it? Had truly wanted Viktor’s attention for more than just a quick autograph or ballet advice? He had never been the subject of such purposefully directed energy, a despairing expression in contrast with his movements of ecstasy.

This was new.

An experience that dragged him down quickly even as he was raised to staggering heights.

He clearly felt Yuuri against him, almost swearing that he could feel Yuuri’s ragged breathing, erratic heartbeat. When he lifted his head, the alcohol was a strong presence in his breath, though Viktor failed to mind. A thick blush was spread across his cheeks and nose. His dark eyes were shining; he looked too close to tears to Viktor’s sorrow.

Why would he cry?

But then he was speaking, slurring words that cried out emotionally. Such a lovely voice, so gentle to be _this_ filled with passion and desperation.

It was impossible for someone to be this enrapturing, in every aspect and act and word.

But then he was speaking… in a constant shift between English and Japanese.

It must be his native language, for him to increasingly resort to it now, depending on it to replace the English words that had escaped him. Viktor couldn’t help but wish that he knew more about Yuuri, beyond his superficial knowledge.

_How long had he lived in Japan? Why did he move to America? Did he like Detroit? Did he still feel homesick? Did he have a good relationship with his family? Did he usually drink? How many events like this did he perform at? How did he spend most of his time? Was he still friends with Phichit? Was he still a fan of Viktor?_

_Did he have any idea how stunning he was, both when shy and when in this confident drunken state?_

But Yuuri was busy flitting between languages, lost to everything happening around him. He probably wouldn’t stop to listen to Viktor. And even if he did, was he anywhere near collected enough to answer?

The evening had raised a frustrating amount of questions when Vikor had been searching for answers.

It was much better this way.

Viktor caught some familiar words scattered among the foreign.

_Ballet. Routine. Earlier this year. Remember. Enough. Will you. Compose._

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

_Let me._

_I know I didn’t win our dance competition but._

_Please._

_Compose… something for you._

_Please._

_Ice Castle._

It was jumbled, key phrases being muddled with the other interspersed words. It was difficult to keep up beyond his constant pleadings.

But Yuuri was on the verge of tears.

And Viktor needed him to be happy again.

Needed him to be drunkenly challenging others and dancing with the music perfectly.

The close dance was Viktor’s greatest joy, but surely this couldn’t be its cost.

“Alright, okay,” he began tentatively, “Don’t you wanna dance again now?”

Yuuri leaned back at Viktor’s answer, smiling brightly again as he wiped his eyes with his sleeves.

“It’s about time, Yuuri,” Christophe drawled, leaning closer. “You haven’t danced with me yet. I’m hurt! Can’t you spare me this one dance and cure me?”

Viktor scoffed at the line but Yuuri was hooked once he registered that this meant another dance competition. He detached himself from Viktor once more as Christophe leaned over the piano and requested “Orpheus in the Underworld” to be played next. It was only after some heavy flirting that the pianist agreed.

“I’ve been waiting for this forever,” Christophe continued when he had returned. “Don’t let me down!”

Christophe grabbed Yuuri’s hand and positioned them both in the middle of the hall while the pianist started the requested song. He led Yuuri in a dance he knew quite well and which the other picked up quickly.

The can-can.

A dance that was suggestive by nature, especially now as Christophe abandoned his slacks and Yuuri let his shirt fall from his frame, only his tie and underwear left. One already improper and shocking.

Only this was Christophe.

Christophe, who only knew the hyped sexualized versions of… everything.

And Yuuri copied his movements eagerly, serious during every second of it. He even took the initiative a couple of times.

Perhaps it would have had more thrill if they both weren’t almost entirely stripped of clothing. But they still put on quite the show.

Constant jumps and legs lifted high, a circling dance where neither touched but moved together. Constant spins and kicks, another high-energy affair though lacking the fury Yuri had provided. Marches toward each other before both cartwheeling past each other. Even a bend forward by them at one instance to draw attention their asses, a move that had lost some of its suggestive nature but making Viktor go wide-eyed regardless.

It wasn’t until near the end that they touched, Christophe slinging an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders through the last few kicks out of fatigue. Not that Yuuri was in a much better state.

After the song Viktor began collecting Yuuri’s discarded clothing, Christophe and Yuuri preoccupied with regaining their breath. Christophe could handle himself; he wasn’t nearly as intoxicated as Yuuri and he had gotten himself into situations like this before. Had gathered himself and taken care of himself before.

Yuuri was a different case, becoming more obvious with his stumbling and dazed gaze.

Suit jacket, shirt, and slacks hung over his arm, Viktor found the official that had talked to Yuuri earlier.

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No.”

The man was disgruntled, most likely upset with the promiscuous turn the evening had taken.

“Did anyone come with him? Or is there anyone I can contact?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Will someone else be-”

“Listen, he’s the hotel’s problem now as far as I’m concerned.”

Viktor nodded before leaving the official.

Waving Christophe aside, he caught Yuuri’s fleeting attention, still standing exactly where he had when the can-can ended.

“I think it’s time for bed, Yuuri,” Viktor started, softly.

“That might… okay.” Yuuri yawned.

“You have to get dressed, though. The hotel isn’t going to let you stay like this.”

“No.”

“Okay, you don’t have to get dressed.”

Going against his word knowingly, Viktor flung the white shirt around Yuuri’s shoulders, not surprised when he was helped a little in this feat. He buttoned the shirt for Yuuri, though he left the jacket off so that it would be easier in the long run. Next was his slacks, Yuuri leaning heavily against him though Viktor left the task of buttoning them up to him.

Trusting Christophe to take care of himself - if not he would come collect Christophe later - he steered Yuuri from the banquet hall and to the concierge desk. Despite the late hour, he managed to get Yuuri a room and guided him there.

The steep cost wasn’t a concern for Viktor; he just needed Yuuri to have a safe place to spend the night.

Yuuri spent a majority of the walk upstairs leaning against Viktor, who happily supported him. He unlocked the door, helped Yuuri to the bed, removed his shoes, and moved him under the covers as quickly as he could while Yuuri drifted off to sleep.

“This was a good evening,” he said before Yuuri had passed out completely.

Viktor scribbled his address down on a spare piece of paper and put it on the nightstand along with the room’s key.

He stole one final glance at Yuuri, eyes closed and breathing shallow.

Yuuri could have been life itself. Music personified. And Viktor would have believed it unquestioningly.

The world off the stage, off the ice, always seemed so empty to him. But now it bustled with life, more than he could have ever guessed. Yuuri brushed away the emptiness effortlessly, filling it with beautiful songs and dances of ecstasy and vivacious words, from those few that Viktor had gotten to witness.

He had guessed so often over the months what his favorite composer was really like, and he still did. But all the questions he had raised tonight were so gratifying. It was unsatisfying, maddening, knowing next to nothing of his new muse but he had never known anything more fulfilling. It was wonder, passionate curiosity, an inspiration to him as Viktor had never known.

When was the last time Viktor had danced so wholeheartedly?

Or been so invested in something?

Yuuri was a shift for the better, surprising Viktor greatly on the two instances he had gotten close to him. His very presence was a far better reward than any he had ever received before.

Had he ever known someone so obviously perfect?

Or gotten to witness the all-consuming beauty that matched Yuuri’s songs and dances?

Even if he stumbled in his steps at times, noticeably trembled as the night wore on and he kept taxing his body with a flexibility he was no longer accustomed to, Viktor still saw everything at the core. The love for music, how the rhythm entangled itself with Yuuri’s body and let him dance so vibrantly.

His own composition was untouchable. Viktor could never decide on whether he was worthy of Yuuri’s song, but kept returning to it and aching to hear it again despite himself.

But having Yuuri next to him was better. The embodiment of the song and so much more. It showed so well in his expressive footwork that night, in his soft smile, even if both were subtle.

He was a paradox. A puzzle Viktor never wanted to solve.

He was _Yuuri_.

Who now slept peacefully, hands pulling the covers closer and his earlier confidence fading to a pleasant blankness.

Who had held Viktor, and only Viktor, so close. Danced with him as a partner instead of a competitor. Begged him for something he could only vaguely piece together. Made him look at Yuuri with such admiration.

Viktor could still feel their dance in his bones, his blood. And the warmth of Yuuri’s chest pressed against his back. And Yuuri’s head tucked under his own, soft black hair and breath brushing along his neck. And the rush that Yuuri had ignited in him so early in the evening that still hadn’t quite faded.

The shock was still there of how intimate Yuuri had been with him, over anyone else. How it was only Viktor’s weight that he willingly supported, Viktor’s trust that he inspired and met.

The very thought of Yuuri cut over his own exhaustion, his own light buzz from the glasses he had been offered throughout the night - mostly by Christophe and Yuuri himself.

It was what made him linger in Yuuri’s room longer than he should have, carefully memorizing his face and the sound of his soft breathing in preparation for their separation.

Viktor was leaving early the next morning. Before most of the skaters.

He was certain that he would be gone before Yuuri would be awake considering how much alcohol he had downed.

This was it.

The evening had gone by too quickly.

But Yuuri had his address and memory of that night. He would write Viktor and see him again and play his song and compose the music for his next routine. Perhaps even dance with him again, fill his life so completely again.

Patience was a virtue that Viktor possessed.

He spared one more glance to Yuuri before walking to the door.

“Good night, Yuuri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Liebestraum by Franz Liszt
> 
> Finally got to the banquet scene!!! Also just to clarify, figure skating was very different in the early days, there was a lot of national bias and the short program wasn't even a thing yet. Thank axel jesus for Yakov.
> 
> As always, _please_ feel free to leave kudos/comments if you're enjoying the story so far. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Edit: I was originally going to update every Friday but this has been difficult to do since it's also my busiest day with schoolwork so I'm moving the date up to Monday when I have more time. Should have thought things through beforehand, shrugs.


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